Where We Land
by LittleMender
Summary: Three-quel to 'End of the Beginning' and 'Somewhere from There'. It was always the same. They would get to a certain point, and she couldn't go any further. He would be patient for as long as it took, trusting that time and tenderness would work it out.
1. Chapter 1

**This is #3 and the final installment in a series, following "The End of the Beginning" and "Somewhere from There".**

**WHERE WE LAND**

1. BEST-LAID PLANS

"Get your hand off my back."

"I'm just steadying you as we're walking over this uneven terrain."

"Then stop moving your fingers and keep your hand on the _outside_ of my shirt."

"Better?"

"Jane?" The note of warning was unmistakable.

"It's called compromise, dear." His hand was on the outside of her shirt, but his fingers hadn't stopped moving.

She was in a bad mood. This wasn't her "Marie's-was-out-of-bear-claws" mood or the "Hightower's-breathing-down-my-neck-again" mood or any of her several other work-and-public-life-related bad moods. This was plain and simple not-enough-sleep grumpy. He was glad he wasn't the only one. He had spent a restless night himself after what happened between them the previous evening.

They were on the couch at her house. Everything was progressing in a definitely desirable direction. His left arm was wrapped around her waist, his right hand stroking her neck—and lower—as he kissed her. He had drawn his arm across and to the small of her back, centering his hand there then sliding downward, pulling her tighter against him as he ground himself into her. She had stiffened suddenly and pulled back, whispering a strangled "Sorry".

It was always the same. They would get to a certain point, and she couldn't go any further. He was patient and would be for as long as it took. They'd only been together for six weeks after all. But the cold showers weren't working, and they were extremely uncomfortable. He winced every time he passed a public fountain. He had hugged her to him tightly, and she had clung to him, grateful for his understanding. After a while they had mutually agreed that they needed to get some sleep, and he had kissed her goodnight and driven back to his apartment to shower and lie on the couch wide awake all night. He knew there was a reason, but he couldn't figure it out. It's not as if she was a cold fish—quite the contrary. She was warm and responsive and generous with her affection, matching his heated touches. She offered no explanation, and he wasn't sure she even had one. He just trusted that time, patience and tenderness would work it out.

As they walked, he started remembering everything that had led to that point. Her taste, her hands, her breathy moans, her gasps when he surprised her. And she did this thing with her tongue . . .

"Jane!" Her voice was low and breathless yet still managed to sound threatening.

His breathing was ragged, and his hand had wandered up her back, pressing into her firmly enough to have worked his fingertips up under her bra strap pushing the fabric of her shirt with them. He lowered his hand, pulling her shirt down at the same time, smoothing it back into place.

They were all walking away from the crime scene in Muir Woods, and he looked back over his shoulder at the three agents silently following a short distance behind them. One side of Cho's mouth curved up to expose a rarely seen dimple. Grace's eyes were open wide—her eyebrows almost raised to her hairline—and she was doing a terrible job of suppressing a smile. Rigsby's face was pinched in a pained expression. All three seemed engrossed in the movements of their feet. As they neared the parking lot, Lisbon stepped sideways out of his reach.

"Van Pelt! You're with me!"

She headed to her SUV with Grace following hard on her heels, and the three men all sheared off to the other vehicle. Jane didn't even attempt to mount a protest. He knew he was in dutch.

After Lisbon and Van Pelt took their respective seats, the boss switched on the ignition and grasped the steering wheel at the four and eight o'clock positions. She knew better than to look at the agent next to her, but—obviously having masochistic tendencies—she couldn't help herself.

Grace still wore the same expression Jane had seen earlier, but now her lips were pressed so firmly together to suppress her smile that they had disappeared completely, forming a thin line across her face. Feeling Lisbon's gaze on her, she slid her still widened eyes sideways at her.

"Wow." Grace said as she rocked forward once in her seat.

Lisbon's hands slid upward and around the steering wheel meeting at the top center. She leaned her forehead on them and groaned.

"Did the guys see?"

"I only noticed because Cho elbowed me."

Lisbon considered this, not lifting her head. The longer she could put off walking into the bullpen and seeing their faces, the better.

"Um . . . Boss?"

"Huh?"

"Don't worry about it. We're all happy for you."

At that, Lisbon's head shot up.

"_Happy_ for me! What do you mean?"

Grace arched an eyebrow and tilted her head, sporting a smirk that couldn't have said "You've got to be kidding" any plainer than if she'd actually spoken the words.

"Who all knows?"

"Just us. You've actually done a pretty good job of being discreet. Says a lot about your influence over Jane. And about how important you are to him."

Van Pelt sat there looking at her, eyebrows still raised as if waiting for Lisbon to share. She felt fairly comfortable with her boss these days. The two had continued their every-Wednesday-women-only lunches over the past few months, and they had become friends.

"So . . . anything you want to talk about or tell me? Anything at all?"

"No, there isn't anything to tell. I mean there's plenty to tell. All good. All very, _very_ good." Lisbon's voice went low and husky, drawing her last words out. Grace nodded at her encouragingly, wanting to hear more. Lisbon didn't know exactly how to continue.

"The pre-game is great and half-time is even better. We just haven't scored."

"Oh . . . " Grace's brow furrowed then she gasped in understanding. "Oh-h-h-h."

Lisbon sat staring unseeingly at the radio as Grace tried to process this bit of information. Lisbon was still somewhat of a closed book, but Jane had certainly seemed . . .

"Why not?" Grace blurted out without thinking. "I mean . . .", she realized it was too late to back pedal. Best to just forge ahead.

"I can imagine it's hard for him. But he's come so far in the past few months. I'm sure if you just give him a little more time—"

"Oh, it's not him. It's _all_ me. If I gave him the sign, he'd take me in the bullpen."

Grace frowned at her lap. She guessed that meant Cho would have to give Wayne's fifty back. Looking back at Lisbon, she asked, "What's the problem?"

"Grace. If I knew the answer to that question, you'd be in the other car and Jane and I would be heading off to chase down a 'lead'."

And with that, Lisbon threw the gear shift into drive and propelled the SUV toward the main road.

Cho, Rigsby and Jane rode back to the CBI in silence. Jane was thoughtfully looking out the window at nothing, and Rigsby drove as fast as traffic would allow, desperately trying to make it back before anyone felt it necessary to begin a conversation. For perhaps the first time in their working relationship, Cho was the one who could barely contain himself. If it had been just him and Rigsby, he wouldn't have hesitated to talk about what had happened on the trail, relishing his partner's discomfort with the subject. But with Jane in the car . . . well, that would make it too personal. And he just couldn't be that disrespectful to Lisbon. He had to content himself with the sure and certain knowledge that Jane would be heading into Lisbon's office as soon as they were back. That would give him even more juice to make Rigsby squirm.

Jane and Lisbon's friendship had come through the fire when she hunted down and killed Red John eight months previous. It was one of the many secrets they shared now—one he would never tell for fear of what might happen to her. Since then, he had come to trust her implicitly, and while he knew she still had certain reservations in that area, he liked to think she was coming closer to one day feeling the same way about him.

Then, six weeks ago, they were called in to investigate the murder of a young mother Lisbon had befriended. Tina Landry's husband had been killed a few months before, and when the young woman was found shot to death in her car with Lisbon's business card and directions to the CBI in her glove compartment, the SCU had driven to Bishop to unravel the mystery. During the course of those few days, Lisbon had discovered that she was named the guardian of Landry's baby son, Will, and Jane had ended up in the hospital. The case had been difficult to say the least.

Oddly enough, the easy part had been realizing their feelings for each other. Jane had always thought the idea of "falling in love" was ridiculous. Why did people say that? He had only been in love really one time in his life. There had been stops and starts, and they had to be sure of how they felt before they left their lives and families and their whole world behind, and he had needed to know how to make his way without ever having learned anything of the sort from his father. But with Lisbon, he had simply fallen. Like love was a vast lake that had been lying clear and sparkling at his feet, waiting for him to realize he had to be submerged in it before he could really breathe. Lisbon had fallen, too. She just wasn't willing to get her hair wet. Yet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to all readers, reviewers, alert-ers and favorite-ers. If happy thoughts were dollars, I'd have enough to own The Mentalist.**

2. FRIENDS AND COLLEAGUES

When the elevators opened onto their floor, the first thing Jane noticed was that there was someone in Lisbon's office. He knew she couldn't have beaten them back, so he walked to her door to see who was daring to take liberties with her space.

Jane watched the stranger for a few minutes, sizing him up and wondering if he had a death wish. The man was easily six feet tall, slender but well-muscled with very dark hair, barely graying at the temples—handsome by most people's standards. And he was touching Lisbon's things. He was looking at her photographs, running his hands along her shelves, picking up her baseball and looking at it in its glass case. Jane felt as if he was watching Lisbon defiled before his eyes—metaphorically speaking. Then the guy had the audacity to sit in her chair. Who did this clown think he was?

"Can I help you find something or someone, Mr. . . . ?"

The man turned clear blue eyes on him that crinkled almost immediately as he smiled and stood to move toward Jane with his hand outstretched.

"Keller. Jayce Keller."

"Patrick Jane. Who did you say you were looking for?

"I'm just waiting for Teresa."

"Teresa . . . as in Lisbon?"

"Yeah. This is her office, right? I recognize the baseball."

"Yes, she's not—"

Before Jane could say whatever it was he'd been about to say, the woman in question breezed past him with a smile on her lips and her eyes lighted up in surprised recognition.

"Jayce! It's been years! What are you doing here?

"Hey, Tiger! How've you been?

Jane stood regarding the two as Jayce Keller opened his arms and Lisbon walked straight into them without hesitation to be caught up in a hug that seemed to envelop her entire body. He leaned his fist, knuckles down, on the corner of her desk, planted the other hand on his hip and crossed one ankle over the other, waiting for them to break apart. When Keller lifted Lisbon off her feet and soundly planted a kiss on her cheek, Jane pointedly cleared his throat.

"Friend of yours, Lisbon?"

Suddenly remembering she had walked passed Jane upon entering her office, she slid her hands from behind Keller's neck to his chest and gave him a slight push to indicate the hug was over. Recognizing Jane's tone, she put on a voice that sounded like she was introducing a speaker at a meeting of the Junior League.

"Jane, this is Jayce Keller, an old friend and former colleague from the San Francisco Police Department. Jayce, this is Patrick Jane, my team consultant."

Jane arched his eyebrow at her just long enough for her to catch his expression before he beamed at the old friend and former colleague.

"It's always nice to meet someone from Lisbon's past. She's rather tight lipped about her personal life. Meeting an old friend is about the only way we learn anything about her at all."

Lisbon was looking at him pleadingly now. If only she hadn't introduced him as her team consultant. If only she had been a little more personal. And if only he didn't notice that Keller still had one hand on her back rubbing up and down. Her sense of self-preservation kicked in, and she moved away from Keller and took a step toward Jane, positioning herself so she was slightly closer to him and she could look at both men as she talked to them simply by turning her head a little to one side or the other. Jane was poised to get rid of the old friend and colleague, but Lisbon's eyes were conveying something that looked close to anguish. The next bit of reprehensible snark he had been about to deliver died on his tongue. Love was making him soft.

"So, Jayce, how did you and Lisbon meet?" He was glad to see Lisbon relax markedly.

"We were at the academy together then served as rookies in the same unit. Teresa was the class favorite. Everybody loved her."

"I'll bet they did."

She looked down to cover a sudden smile.

"Yeah, she was sort of the star of the show. We couldn't believe it when she left us for the CBI."

"Lucky for us."

She dared to look up at him. Her eyes were starting to tear, and he could tell she was only moments away from outright laughter or a good snort.

"We always knew she'd outshine us all—that there was no limit to how far she'd go."

"You have no idea."

She had a sudden coughing fit. Jane quickly moved to her side, grasped her upper arm with one hand and gave her a few good whacks between her shoulder blades with the other.

"All right there, . . . _Tiger_?"

Now she was glaring at him. He grinned at her and his patting turned into long up-and-down strokes. She almost swayed to him but caught herself when Keller's cell phone rang, reminding her that someone else was in the room with them.

"Keller . . . yeah, I'm talking with her now . . . okay, sure." Motioning to his phone, he looked at them apologetically. "I've got to take this. Is there a private room somewhere?"

Lisbon directed him to the conference room and started to follow him when Jane, his hand still on her upper arm, pulled her back to him, smoothly pushing the door shut as he did so.

"How close a friend and colleague was Jayce Keller?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Are you trying to keep a secret, or are you just being coy?"

"I really don't know why you would ask me that."

"Teresa", he growled at her.

"Oh, please. Don't tell me you're jealous."

"Do I have a reason to be?"

Now he was holding her by both of her upper arms. She stepped closer to him until her body was just a hair's breadth from his. He turned his head slightly and narrowed his eyes at her. It wasn't like her to get so close at the office—he could count the times it had happened on one hand. When her eyes went innocently wide and took on a familiar mischievous glint, he knew he was in trouble.

"Why Mr. Jane, I had no idea how possessive you are."

His growl mixed with a quiet chuckle, that deep throaty combination of sound that was one of her favorites, his hands tightening on her upper arms. She'd first discovered his weakness for that particular impersonation a few weeks ago when they were working the Landry case. They'd sat in a dive called the Last Ditch in an effort to catch a killer, Lisbon wearing a scanty outfit Jane had somehow convinced her to don in an effort to not stand out—an effort that had resoundingly failed. They'd started seeing each other shortly after that, and she had quickly learned what the sultry blonde's voice falling from her lips could do to him. She had used her power sparingly, but right now, teasing Jealous Jane was too good to resist.

"I've warned you about channeling Marilyn at the office. If you want me to maintain what precious little professionalism I've got, you shouldn't go there."

"And so commanding!"

"Please tell me you never did that for Keller. Or any of the other eager cadets?"

She took pity on him and reverted back to herself. "No, Jane. I've never been Marilyn for anyone but you."

He had her in his arms now, her forearms resting against his chest and palms on his shoulders, her fingers toying with his collar. She was trying not to give too much away.

"You know, I've pictured you in a white dress, full skirt, halter straps, bare back."

"Actually, I have a dress like that."

He looked at her, amused and questioning.

"I was Marilyn in 'The Seven Year Itch' three Halloweens ago."

While he found this bit of information very interesting, he stored it away for future reference, wanting clarification on the matter at hand.

"So, there was nothing but friendship between you and Captain America?"

"No. Jayce is a great guy, and he's certainly easy to look at, but I think I prefer the Dark Knight—consumed and brooding."

He chose to ignore the "easy to look at" part.

"I guess that makes you Cat Woman?"

"That would have been four Halloweens ago."

And just like that, he didn't care about Jayce Keller or anybody else for that matter. Lisbon had his full attention, and he was about to completely break with her keep-it-out-of-the-office protocol when they heard Keller wrapping up his phone conversation as he approached the door.

"Yeah, sure, as soon as I finish here . . . Right, I'll get back to you."

He snapped his phone shut and re-entered the room, looking first at Jane, who had moved to the couch, then Lisbon now seated behind her desk.

"Sorry about that. I need to look into a couple of other things, so I'll make this short. The reason I'm here, Teresa, is because I'm working a homicide involving a body that washed up in the bay a couple of days ago—identified as Joseph Carlton, a friend of William McTeer's . . ."

He continued to talk, but no one was listening. McTeer was a pedophile serial rapist who had terrorized the Bay Area for eighteen months over a decade ago. While a young inspector with the SFPD, Lisbon had tracked and captured the pervert in a case that was widely considered to have made her career. Her success had brought her to the attention of Virgil Minelli, her first boss at the CBI. Only a few weeks after McTeer's timely conviction, Minelli had called to offer her a position on the Serious Crimes Unit as second-in-command. He gave her a few days to consider, but she had accepted the position before the end of the call. Only a year later, she was promoted to head of the unit.

After McTeer was paroled a little over two years ago, his body was found in a Sacramento alley. He had been murdered by someone trying to frame Lisbon so that her testimony in a completely unrelated case would be thrown out. The scheme would have succeeded if her consultant and friend hadn't gone out on a limb with her to help clear her name. Now, Lisbon's eyes sought out Jane's, and he watched her helplessly from across the room as something seemed to give way deep within her and crumble.

_Carlton . . . a body . . . the Bay . . . McTeer . . . Carlton._ It was all a mish-mash in her head. Was Keller still talking? Was she supposed to say something? Suddenly something long practiced snapped into place and her office came back into focus . . . _Focus . . . Jane . . . Look at Jane_ . . . Jayce was still talking. _Listen_.

Jane was watching her. The color had almost completely drained from her face, leaving her looking like white marble, her eyes shining wild and vivid in contrast. He would have taken the time to admire her almost other-worldly beauty if he hadn't been so immediately frightened for her. Fortunately, Keller had been considering a text on his cell phone and didn't notice the change as it happened. By the time he looked up, Lisbon had regained control.

" . . . He was last seen about the time you were working the case that led to McTeer's arrest. I was hoping you might be able to give me some information."

"I do remember Joe Carlton. He tried to alibi McTeer, but it fell through. Other than that, I really had very little contact with him during the case."

Apart from her going behind his back to hunt and kill Red John, Jane had never seen her lie so flawlessly. Then, the charade had played out in several acts over a period of weeks. But to see it like this, sudden and unprepared and consummate . . . His old self would have considered it art. His scam-artist father would have been intrigued, to say the least.

"That's what I figured, but like I said, I had other things to check on up this way, so I thought I'd use this as an excuse to see you. You really do look good, Teresa."

His eyes lingered on her, and Jane felt his jaw clench. He needed to watch himself—watch out for Lisbon. Her eyes had turned to his at the mention of Carlton's name. They needed to talk. Keller needed to go.

"What are these other leads you have to follow up on, Keller?"

Startled out of looking at Lisbon, the inspector turned only halfway to Jane as if he didn't want to take his eyes off her completely.

"One of Carlton's former cellmates lives up here as well as his younger sister. I just wanted to see if they had anything to say. Frankly, I don't expect this to go anywhere. Our coroner's saying Carlton died ten years ago, all we've got is a skeleton, and nobody even filed a missing persons on him. But you know how it is. We've got to run down every trail."

"Well, we shouldn't keep you. It was nice meeting you."

Jane was moving toward him with his hand outstretched. In a conditioned response, Keller reached out to shake the offered hand. Taking Jane's cue, Lisbon rose from her chair and walked around her desk to him. She hugged her old friend warmly but with less enthusiasm this time.

"It was good to see you, Jayce. Call me the next time you're in town. And if there's anything the CBI can do to help, just let me know."

Keller pulled away from her reluctantly and left, looking back at her with a wink and a smile before he walked out. She followed close behind him, shutting the door and turning to lean her back against it, her hands clasped behind her. She threw a wild, desperate look around the room before her gaze landed on Jane. He still stood in the middle of the room where Jayce Keller had left him.

"Teresa—"

"Give me a minute." She barely gasped out before she suddenly turned and fled in the direction of the ladies' room.

He walked back to the couch and dropped onto it hard. A few minutes later she returned, the spatters on her shirt evidence of the cold water she had thrown on her face. She didn't go to him. She just leaned back against her desk, her hands gripping the edge, the pressure whitening her knuckles.

"Just tell me what it is. Whatever it is, I can help. I _will_ help you."

"Not now."

His expression was one of warning. Before he could speak the words behind it, she amended.

"Not _here_ . . . Later . . . At my house."

"We'll leave on time today—no staying late. You pick up Will and head home. I'll get some Thai. Okay?"

She nodded, looking confused and lost in that way she had that made his heart wrench.

Without hesitation he walked to her, threaded the fingers of his right hand into the hair at her left temple and kissed her gently on her right cheek.

"Later then . . . at the safe house."

It's where she had stayed under protection when Red John had threatened her. It's where Jane had found her after she had killed the man and where she had continued to live after arrangements had been made to purchase the place. He still called it the safe house. It had ceased being that for her with the serial killer's death, but he would always consider her home a safe house for himself. He walked out of her office, closing the door behind him and giving her the privacy she needed to compose herself. He could wait for the truth a few more hours.


	3. Chapter 3

3. LIFE IS A GAME

Somehow, they had both been able to push the anticipated conversation to the back of their minds, but they were relieved when they arrived at the house, Jane following a few minutes after Lisbon with carryout. He slipped out of his jacket and vest while she finished setting the table and rolled up his sleeves as he took a seat across from her.

They ate in comfortable silence, Jane sensing that she didn't want to talk about it over dinner, Lisbon knowing he would be patient. He watched her, holding Will on her lap, feeding the child and herself by turns. It still amazed him—how easily she had slid into this role of motherhood. He had always thought of her as emotionally awkward but had come to see it was just another part of herself she kept hidden, not wanting to give away too many clues about her past or her private self. He understood that too well. He had maintained a façade for so long, keeping up pretenses, shielding his privacy from any eyes both prying and caring. It had taken him by surprise when he realized that over the years of their acquaintance, he had revealed many more of his secrets—much more of himself—to her than she had to him. He could afford to wait for her to come to him. When dinner was over she left him with the dishes while she gave Will his bath and put him to bed. She walked back into the kitchen, poured two glasses of wine, handed one to Jane then took his hand and led him to the couch and sat down. She took a drink and set her glass on the coffee table. Then, letting him take both of her hands in his, she began her story without preamble.

"I took my first round of detective exams right after I came out of the academy. I was a rookie patrol cop for a short time at the same precinct as Sam, and he encouraged me to take the next round as soon as possible. Once I passed and met all the requirements, he pulled some strings to have me assigned to his unit as an inspector."

She stopped, caught up in the memory, weighing how she should continue. Jane was uneasy with the thought that she may also be considering _how much_ to say. Why couldn't she just tell him everything without having to edit out the parts she didn't feel comfortable with him knowing? Didn't she know by now she could tell him anything? He knew she didn't completely trust him in all aspects of their relationship. There were still a few parts of herself she withheld from him, emotionally as well as physically.

Jane remembered when he had first learned of her previous relationship with Sam. It was shortly after Bosco had come to the CBI and been handed the Red John case. McTeer's body had just been found in the back alley, and Jane had been so curious over Lisbon's history with the ex-con that he had actually performed an internet search, looking up anything and everything he could find about her stint as a San Francisco cop. Later that day, he had broached the subject under the guise of playing a version of the old shell game.

"_Jane, we have a case. You think I have time for games?" Although she was put out with him, she had acquiesced to his request that she keep her eyes shut just as he had closed his. Four coffee mugs rested on the table between them, upside down and positioned in a straight line._

"_Life is a game . . . You have plenty of time for that—sh . . . sh! . . . " He opened his eyes to look levelly at her._

"_I'm gonna read your thoughts." He watched her, ready to read her reactions to the game, knowing she was unaware of his real intentions._

"_I want you to take a deep breath in . . ." He watched her do as he asked, with a somewhat melodramatic air._

" _. . . and out." She released the deep breath._

"_Will you concentrate? . . . Name as many twentieth century presidents as you can. Now."_

"_Uh, Coolidge, Wilson, . . . Roosevelt, um . . ., Eisenhower, Truman, Kennedy, Nixon, LBJ."_

"_Good. Take another breath in . . . ", which she did with begrudging good humor. ". . . and out." His gaze was boring into her now in a way that would have unnerved her if she had opened her eyes, his voice growing softer each time he spoke, a cross between hypnotic and seductive._

"_Concentrate on which mug it is under . . . I am listening to your thoughts—Don't shout . . . I can hear you . . . open your eyes."_

_When she did as he instructed, he snatched up the second mug from her right to reveal a twenty-dollar bill._

"_Well, . . . you did have a twenty-five percent shot." She wasn't willing to give him any credit more than dumb luck. He stretched the bill out flipping it back and forth._

"_We could do it . . all day, and I would get it everytime."_

_She snatched the bill out of his hand. "Gimme that." She didn't bother to hide being intrigued at the trick. "How'd you do it?" She turned the bill back and forth in her hands now and checked the mug, looking at both objects as if they had performed the trick on their own. He looked at her with his best swami expression._

"_You told me, Lisbon." He touched the fingertips of his right hand together and motioned between his own forehead and hers. "Our minds are in sync." He closed his eyes and frowned, touching his fingertips to the furrow between his eyes._

"_In fact, right now, right now I'm feeling something, I'm getting it right here—it's a, it's a nickname . . . Saint . . . Teresa." He opened his eyes and turned his fingers to point at her. She looked at him more seriously now, wondering what he was about, knowing it wasn't a game anymore. He inhaled deeply before he asked her about what he'd really been after, his eyes slightly narrowing at her._

"_How come you never told me about how you know Agent Bosco?"_

Not how come she never said, how come she never mentioned, how come the team didn't know . . . How come you never told _me_ . . .?

She hadn't answered him then but had walked out of the room to the bullpen, only to find the rest of the team gathered around Van Pelt's computer looking at what she had found in searching Lisbon's part in the case. In a rare moment of transparency, Jane had given away—under the guise of mocking Bosco—that he had not only looked up the articles but had memorized Sam's comments about his junior inspector. Thinking back on it, he wondered why he had been so blind to how emotionally vested he had already been.

She took a deep breath, and he knew from the look of resolve that settled on her features that she had decided to tell all.

"I was working the McTeer case. I caught a lead . . . "

"Carlton?"

"Joe Carlton", she affirmed. "Sam went with me to check it out, didn't want me in a situation in that part of the city without back-up. Carlton said he was willing to give McTeer up in exchange for . . . He kept threatening me. Sam was getting angrier by the second. I was getting information out of Carlton little by little—he really wasn't that bright, just took time to draw him out. But Sam got mad when Carlton said what McTeer wanted to do to me, even though he said I was a little old for his usual tastes . . ."

It was getting harder and harder for her to talk. The memory of it shook her so that Jane's hands tightened on hers, trying to still their trembling, reminding her he was still with her. Her voice began to quiver as she continued.

"Sam took hold of the back of his head and slammed it on a concrete ledge at the back of the alley." Her eyes widened in horror as if she were watching it play out before her all over again. "Snapped his neck."

Now she looked at him, her eyes pleading with him to understand. Suddenly her speech was no longer halting, and the words came pouring out.

"It all happened so fast—I didn't know what to do. Sam just stood there holding Carlton's head in his hands . . . He laid him down on the pavement." Her face crumpled. "Carlton's head just hung limp to the side."

He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, tell her that she didn't need to tell him anymore, but he knew she had to finish the story and would need to maintain physical distance to get it all out. She swallowed and calmed herself.

"Sam told me to go home and let him take care of everything. I didn't know what he planned, and we never talked about it after that. The next day we went out in Sam's car to question a witness, and the keys to his boat were in one of the cup holders. I knew he had taken Carlton out into the bay. I had to sit on the information, find other ways to account for what I'd found out. If I moved too fast, people would start asking questions about my source. I couldn't risk it. McTeer had taken his last victim a little over a week before. He usually waited two or three months between. I thought there was time . . ."

Her voice had begun to tremble again, her words catching in her throat so that she had to force them out. She closed her eyes and tried to pull her hands away from him, wanting to curl in on herself. He could see the torment in her—the guilt and remorse, the regret.

"But he attacked Katie Whelan the next week." He prompted her.

"Yes", she answered in a tortured whisper. "I arrested him two days later."

"Is this what you threatened Bosco with to get me out of jail?"

She looked up at him then, surprised that he had gone in that direction, and silently nodded. There had to have been something else she could have used on his behalf. He knew now how much it had cost her to see him freed—how much she had been willing to sacrifice. He couldn't believe she had gone to such extremes for him. She tried to pull away again, but he pulled her toward him instead. Sliding an arm around her back, taking hold of her and turning her around, he slid her into his lap, holding her tensed form tightly until she relaxed into him.

"Well, one thing is certain, my dear. There is no end of surprises with you."

She knew that even though his tone was light, he was completely serious. So grateful that he wasn't shocked or repulsed by her, she melted against him and leaned her head on his chest, wrapping one arm behind his back and resting her other hand over his heart. He stroked and patted her back by turns. After a minute, she raised her face to bury it in one side of his neck and brought her hand up to caress the other. She kissed his warm skin then kissed him again, inching her way up to his lips. Wanting to shorten the distance, he lowered his face to hers and caught her mouth in a slow, languid kiss. He wanted her to know he wasn't going anywhere.

Within seconds, comfort and acceptance melded into desire. Teresa moved against him in heated desperation, straightening her back so that her face was now above his, her fingers splayed on either side of his head forcing him to tilt his head back so that her lips could capture his. Her hands slid down to his chest, all but pulling the buttons off of his shirt to get them undone. Once she had achieved that objective, she untucked it from his trousers and moved to his belt. His senses cleared with amazing alacrity, and he pulled his own hands from where they had roamed to still her frenzied movements.

"Teresa . . . stop. Sweetheart, please."

Her frustrated whimper was muffled against the sensitive spot under his ear, and it took every ounce of his willpower to clasp her hands and push her away from him. He wanted her but not like this. Still, his lips hovered a fraction of an inch away from her, ghosting his breath over her skin even as he took in her scent.

"I thought you wanted this." It was almost an accusation.

"I did. I do. But not this way. I don't want your first time with me to be a way to forget . . . "

Sam. He couldn't say it. Bosco had regarded her with a kind of possessiveness that Jane associated with a romantic or perhaps sexual connection. But he hadn't wanted to believe she had ever belonged to him in that way. As for _his_ relationship with her former mentor, Bosco always said he didn't like Jane because he wasn't a cop. He despised Jane's unconventional methods of closing cases and the trouble they caused for the rest of the team. That's what Bosco _said_. Jane had known the real point of contention was always Lisbon.

She pulled back from him, embarrassed at her lack of control and his seeming rejection.

"Teresa, I'm—"

"It's all right." She pushed herself off of him and took a few steps away, turning her back to him and looking down at her fingers as she twisted them together self-consciously. He moved to stand behind her, his hands on her shoulders. Before he could draw her back to him, she turned to face him and rested her palms on his chest, smiling up at him, already back to herself.

"It's all right." She assured him. "I know. I get it." She snaked her arm through his and turned him, walking him toward her front door, collecting his jacket and vest on the way.

"I'm tired. We both are. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?" She leaned up and kissed him, quick and soft, then handed him out into the night and closed the door behind him. He stood on her front stoop and looked at the door nonplussed. It was the most gently he had ever been thrown out of any place in his whole life.


	4. Chapter 4

4. WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS

Mandy Bosco frowned at the envelope that had come in the morning mail. Over a year after her husband's death she was still getting mail addressed to him. This was from a bank in San Francisco, in an area close to Sam's work. His old work. She could tell that this wasn't just another debit card offer. They didn't have any accounts there, and she didn't know why after so much time had passed her husband would be getting any kind of customer notice. She was always quietly apprehensive over calls or mail related to Sam since his death. She had long had the uneasy suspicion that a small but extremely significant part of her husband's life was a complete unknown . . . To her at least.

After his death, she had moved their children back to San Francisco to be close to her family and to get the kids back into more familiar surroundings. They hadn't really adjusted to life in Sacramento when Sam had agreed to take a position with the CBI. She had never completely understood the career _or_ physical move. Sam had loved working for the SFPD, and his career was on the rise. When the call had come from Virgil Minelli, Sam had given his two-weeks' notice at the precinct the next day. If only he had talked to her, she could have told him how much she didn't want to move—how much the children wanted to stay in San Francisco, the only home they had ever known. If only . . .

She turned the envelope over and opened it, pulling the one-page letter out. Reading it as she unfolded it, she was surprised to see it was a statement for rental on a safe deposit box. Sam had taken the box a few years ago, paying rent every two years. The contracted time was up, and the payment for the next two years was due. Something gnawed at her that she knew wouldn't let her rest until she had taken care of it. Armed one more time with a copy of their marriage license and Sam's death certificate, she headed to the bank.

The bank officer was all courtesy and condolence and finally left her alone in the safe deposit vault. She took a deep breath and pushed back the box's lid. Inside was a large manila envelope. She carefully lifted it, opened the clasp and tilted it to slide its contents out. The photographs fell out like large pieces of confetti, littering the table and floor. Only one landed firmly in her hand. She stared at it as if mesmerized. Gazing back at her was a smiling image of Teresa Lisbon. Judging by the hairstyle, the picture had been taken within the weeks before Sam's death. Her husband's former protégée was looking off to the side, smiling at someone outside the shot, apparently unaware that her picture was being taken.

The door at the end of the corridor clanged open again as the bank officer ushered another customer into an adjoining room. The noise brought her out of her fog and prompted her to act. She shoved the photographs back into the envelope and slid her purse straps up onto her shoulder, leaving the empty safe deposit box on the table. Informing the officer that she wouldn't be renewing the rental, she entered the elevator and pushed the button for the first floor. Once she cleared the front door, she texted her oldest daughter that she wouldn't be home when the children got out of school that afternoon. She would need to get gas and grab something to eat—two short stops before she got out on the interstate. Once she started the nearly two-hour drive to Sacramento, she wouldn't want to stop.

It really wasn't going to be a confrontation. She had never seen anything in Teresa's manner that suggested more than respect and friendship toward Sam. And she had certainly never seen anything in her character that would suggest she was capable of having an affair with a married man, especially the husband of a woman she knew well. She also knew that while Teresa was generally optimistic, a hopeful fixer of the broken and righter of their wrongs, the girl was not naïve. She would have known that Sam had feelings for her, but Mandy was sure Teresa had no idea of the depth, the near obsession evidenced by the contents of the safe deposit box. But she had to know for sure.

She entered the CBI building—the only time she had ever crossed the threshold of the place—and checked in at the security desk. One call, and she was quickly escorted upstairs to see the woman her husband had loved.

The envelope contained dozens of photographs—pictures of Teresa at various police functions, candid shots of her in the field, photos of her with Sam and others from the old unit, pictures of Sam's life centered around his heart's desire. She would show them to Teresa, and one look at her face would tell Mandy what she wanted to know. As far as what Sam had felt, she could have no doubt. He had broken faith—with his heart if not his body. Now, for some reason she couldn't understand, it was important for her to see that the girl she had loved and admired had not done the same.

Teresa met her at the elevator, gladness at the sight of her old friend mixed with concern. For the first time, Mandy felt shy in her presence. Teresa hugged her, and Mandy returned the gesture hesitantly at first, then with genuine affection. Teresa walked her to her office asking after the children—a safe topic for both women—and motioned her through the door.

Jane watched their interplay from his couch, where he had laid all morning after bringing Lisbon her first cup of coffee. Things had been slightly awkward between them, but there had been no anger or emotional stalemate. He knew eventually they would talk about what had happened the previous evening. Neither of them would be able to leave it alone for too long. He hoped her conversation with the woman he recognized from photographs Sam Bosco had kept on his desk would give her some sense of closure.

Teresa closed her office door and guided Mandy to sit on the couch with her.

"Mandy, it's good to see you. I've been meaning to call, but—"

"Teresa, it's all right. I know you're more of a workaholic than Sam was." They laughed, comfortable together, and she was relieved that it didn't seem wrong or strained to talk about her late husband with this woman.

"It's good to see you, Mandy, but I can't imagine you drove all this way for a social call. What can I do for you?"

Without a word, Mandy turned to extract the large envelope from her bag where she had settled it on the floor by her feet. Turning to face Teresa more directly, she wordlessly laid it across the younger woman's hands. Sensing what she was expected to do, Teresa opened it and let its contents fall out into her lap. All of the air left her lungs. She began picking up the photographs one by one, examining them without seeming to really comprehend what she was seeing. She only remembered eight or ten of these photographs being taken. The rest . . . When she looked up at Mandy, her face a picture of confusion, Mandy breathed a sigh of sorrowful relief.

"Did you know how he felt about you?"

Teresa couldn't speak anything to her friend at this point but the truth.

"I knew he had feelings . . . knew he loved me. He told me before he died. But this . . ." All at once it was important that Mandy know the absolute truth, and her words came out confident and sincere.

"Mandy, I swear, we never—I never—I wouldn't have—"

"I know, Teresa. I know." Mandy took hold of the younger woman's hands that had begun to flutter in agitation as she struggled to get out the words to assure her of the truth.

"Were you . . . in love with him?"

Teresa looked at her, level and clear, and answered quietly but emphatically, "No. He was my friend. I always loved him as my friend."

Mandy searched her eyes and broke into a relieved and suddenly watery smile.

"Good . . . Good, I'm glad."

Teresa realized her betrayal would have hurt this dear woman almost as much as her husband's must have.

"I won't keep you anymore, Teresa. I just wanted to see you. If it's all right I want to leave these here. Will you take care of them?" She motioned to the photographs. Teresa nodded silently. Both women knew she would not be keeping them. They rose from the sofa together and walked to the door, where Mandy suddenly turned and pulled Teresa into a tight and desperate embrace. They stood like that for a few seconds then walked through the door and toward the elevator, Mandy's right arm entwined with Teresa's left, separating only when the older woman stepped onto the elevator. They smiled at one another, and Teresa mouthed a silent good-bye as the door slid closed. She knew outside of a chance encounter, she would never see Mandy Bosco again.

Jane had watched their silent walk and exchange, wondering if he should go to Teresa. As he deliberated upon a course of action, she pushed the up button. After she stepped into the elevator, he watched as the LED indicated that she had ridden to the top floor. She was going to the roof. He would let her be, let her have this time to herself, but he stood and walked to her office, determined to be there for her when she came back. He had made some terrible error the night before, and he wanted to start making it up to her, even though she had given absolutely no indication that she expected such a thing. When he walked to her couch, he saw the pictures.

As Lisbon had done, he picked them up and studied them one by one. He knew Bosco's wife had brought them, knew she must have found them somewhere. His heart went out to her over what must have been a heart-wrenching discovery. But unlike Lisbon, he was not confused at what he saw. He knew nearly all of the photographs had been obtained one way or another without Lisbon's knowledge. Sam hadn't just been in love with her. It was a loving obsession, of no danger to anyone but the man himself. Any romantic or sexual feelings had been altogether on Bosco's side. There wasn't one picture that proved Lisbon had returned his feelings in any measure. If nothing else, the nature of Mandy's leave-taking told him that. One photograph in particular caught his eye—the same that had caught Mandy's. It was taken of Lisbon just a few weeks before Bosco died. She was smiling, open and genuine with laughter in her eyes, at someone off camera. He remembered that day. He had been teasing her about her dimple. She had glared at him, then rolled her eyes and finally given into that smile. No wonder Bosco had hated him so.

When she came back a few minutes later, she found him sitting on the couch, looking at the pictures. Ordinarily she would have been angry, or at least irritated, that he had seen them—that he had discovered this secret of hers that was actually the secret of another. But she stood there watching him, taking in his unguarded expression and posture. He looked so _relieved_. Realization hit her full force. Last night . . . he had thought . . . He had thought it was about Bosco.

She walked to the couch and sat next to him, taking the picture he was holding from his hand. Sliding her fingers lightly across his palm to take its place, she assured him his uncertainties had been unfounded.

"I knew how Sam felt about me . . . to a point. He told me before he died that he loved me. It was the first time—the _only time_ he ever said anything like that to me. I loved him as a friend and mentor. Nothing more."

"I know."

"You know that _now_."

"Yes . . . I know that now. I'm sorry, Teresa."

"You all saw it—you and Grace and Cho and even Rigsby." The question of whom else might have seen it in his eyes, his glances, his gazes crossed her mind, and she chased the thought away before it could take hold. "And these . . ."

"What are you going to do with them?"

"Pitch them. I couldn't possibly keep them. I wouldn't even want to."

"It's a shame to just throw them away. You're so beautiful."

She shuddered, and he dropped the pictures to the floor to rub his hands up and down her arms.

"You can take your own pictures of me."

"Deal."

"Nothing weird, kinky or embarrassing."

"Killjoy."

And they were all right again.

Later that day, Jane went to retrieve Will from the office daycare. Filling out the paperwork to enroll him, Lisbon had smiled to herself when she added his, Cho's, Rigsby's and Van Pelt's names to the emergency list of other people who could pick up the baby. He knew it gave her a sense of family. It was probably the only paperwork she had ever enjoyed.

He'd have to take Will up to the bullpen for a while. He always hated that. He knew most babies' first word was da-da or some variation of that. It had proven true with his own daughter, and he could still remember his joy as well as his wife's laughing disappointment. She had, after all, done all the work.

Lisbon, on the other hand, had been delighted when Will first said those words. Jane, not so much. They were the child's first name uttered, and had been consistently used since then, for Rigsby. Grace had thought it was adorable. Taken by surprise, Rigsby had looked immediately at Cho, whether for help or in fear of a painful ribbing Jane didn't know. Cho had only turned back to his book with a smirk and a mumbled "Better you than me, man."

It had really bugged Jane, but what could he do about it? They were keeping their relationship a secret, and he couldn't give it away, whining about his girlfriend's son calling some other guy da-da. He wished he could just ask Teresa to do something about it, but what kind of wimp would he look like then? Besides, he had a sneaking suspicion she knew that it bothered him and just didn't do anything about it out of meanness.

He scooped the boy up, carried him back up to the bullpen for a short visit, suffered through the inevitable, and then whisked him away to Lisbon's office, He dumped the child unceremoniously in her lap, unwilling to take it anymore and emboldened by finally learning the limits of her relationship with her former mentor.

"You know, I really wish you would do something about your kid's confusion on the subject of Rigsby's paternity."

"What?" She smirked at him. "You can't come up with a way to handle it?"

Entranced by Will's interest in and love for handling her hair, Jane shook himself to answer her. "What? And blow our 'cover'? We agreed to keep it a secret—your idea not mine. If he starts calling _me_ that, you don't think they're going to figure something's up?"

She was disentangling Will's fingers from her hair, and all of her attention seemed to be focused on that. "Oh, about that. I forgot to tell you. They know."

"What!" He stiffened with indignation, and she looked up and laughed at him.

"The team. They know. And they're happy for us."

"Since when?"

"Since you started taking every opportunity to grope me in public."

"I haven't taken _every_ opportunity."

She was still smiling, watching Will and leaning in to kiss the side of his head. When she looked up at Jane, she was immediately wary.

"Jane?" Again, with that note of warning.

"What?" He was moving slowly toward her now with a look that was purely predatory. "Since they know anyway . . ."


	5. Chapter 5

5. FRACTURED

It had been a week since Jayce Keller's initial visit to the CBI. He had called Teresa periodically over that time to keep her abreast of his investigation. The last call had been an invitation to meet him for dinner his last night in Sacramento before heading south. Over the salad course he told her he was at a dead end. The case was already being dismissed as cold. Jane had not been keen on her going out alone with Keller, but she thought it would seem more normal for her to spend some time with an old friend she hadn't seen in years. She knew she was probably being paranoid, but she felt it would be suspicious to turn down the dinner invitation and just wish him well on his way out of town. Jane took care of Will for her, and he spent the evening alternating playtime with lectures on the fickle faithlessness and inconsistencies of women. Lisbon hoped the child wouldn't be scarred, but it wasn't her biggest concern at the moment. After she and a disappointed Keller separated for the evening, she breathed a sigh of relief.

The next day, the team continued to work the case they had caught in Muir Woods. They had enough evidence pointing to one particular person of interest, and everything was falling together. They were just waiting on a warrant for the suspect's boathouse.

Jane loved when they had a break in a case. Lisbon glowed with the anticipation of a bust and a clean finish. It made her frisky.

"Frisky?" She murmured against his skin as she kissed along his jaw line when he pointed out his observation.

"Definitely frisky. When an alibi doesn't pan out or a warrant comes through or a scumbag confesses, your inhibitions fly out the door, and you forget your own rules. I hope for the day all three happen at once. I fully expect to be ravaged on your couch."

She tried to draw away from him, unsure and—he suspected—on the verge of stammering out an apology again for what she couldn't give. He regretted the effect of his words, but he would never stop letting her know he wanted her. He caught her wrists, pulling her back to him and engulfed her in a hug.

"Teresa, stop apologizing. I'm happy to have you with me. I just want you—as much as you can give me."

She drew back and furrowed her brow at him.

"It pains me to say it, but I don't deserve you."

"Not at all, my dear. If you don't have to apologize for not having sex, I won't have to apologize when we do. It has been a while."

She laughed in that surprised way he loved then hugged him close and inhaled his scent. _So close to perfect._ The thought had no more drifted into her head than she tensed in his arms. A foggy dread tried to push to her mind's forefront. It was always there, just below the surface of her conscious thought. She never let if surface, didn't even know what it was, but she knew it was there just the same. He drew back and looked at her with a question that he couldn't formulate. Deciding to leave it alone rather than disturb their newly rediscovered balance, he gave her one more hug before going to make himself some tea.

She followed him out of her office, parting ways when he headed to the break room and she moved to the bullpen. Pushing down and denying the uncertainty she felt, she sat on the end of the couch he usually took when they shared the space, ready to tease him when he returned. A crinkling sound alerted her to there being something under the seat cushion. He had a tendency to hide things in the couch—mostly evidence he had purloined from crime scenes. Curious as to what he could have squirreled away, she leaned her body weight forward just enough to be able to slide her hand into the space and pulled out a folder. Wondering what he might be hiding in a file in the couch, she opened it and began to read from the papers it contained.

They were job offers—everything from federal law enforcement agencies to private corporations to wealthy individuals clamoring for access to Jane's particular skills. The bulk of them were stuck haphazardly at the back of the folder, but about five were at the front clipped to follow up letters containing salary and extra compensation information. She read through the letters that had obviously come as responses: "In answer to your request—", "In response to your enquiry—", "Thank you for your interest—"

The vague dread she had been harboring for weeks slammed into the forefront of her mind, and for just a moment her body forgot how to breathe. She knew what she had only hazily feared was true: he was leaving.

He was nearly nine months into the year he had promised to stay after Red John's death, and he was looking to his future. Every job offer was outside the state, some outside the country. His time was nearly up, and he was leaving her. The words on the pages in front of her went blurry and her heart pounded, seemingly sending blood surging to her head. She felt dizzy and sick at the same time. She gripped the arm of the couch and willed herself to be calm. Somehow, it worked, and the blood stopped rushing in her ears. She had believed him when he said he loved her, when he said he would always be there with her. She was glad now she hadn't been so foolish, so completely taken in, to have trusted him.

She heard him talking to Cho as he left the break room on his way back to the bullpen. She hurriedly stuffed the folder back under the cushion, careful to put it back exactly as she had found it, then stood as he approached, her eyes unable to meet his.

"I just remembered an appointment I made for this afternoon. I'll be back later." She said it to the room at large as she brushed passed him on her way out of the bullpen. Thankfully, her keys and cell phone were in her pocket so she could head straight to the elevator and make her escape. To just where, she wasn't certain.

All she had to do was remember to keep breathing.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Jayce Keller made his way to the darkened pier on the lower end of the San Francisco waterfront. He was nervous. He had done the best he could. He had tried to make everything come out the way he needed—the way it was expected. But the evidence just wasn't there. As he waited alone in the dark, he wondered how he had come to this point—desperate and in debt to the wrong people. He never should have served that stint with vice. He had been too easily lured by the very things he was trying to stop. He had been one of the top graduates from the academy, second only to Teresa Lisbon. In spite of the fact that she seemed to always best him, he couldn't hold it against her. He had loved her. They all had. She was the academy sweetheart, and when they had ended up in Bosco's unit, it had been the same. There wasn't a man that worked with her in any capacity that wouldn't have given everything he had for her—to help her or please her. That's why all of this had stuck in his craw. He was relieved for her sake when the pieces hadn't come together.

But that didn't change his apprehension about the unpleasantness he knew he would have to face now. He waited ten minutes, then twenty, then a full forty-five minutes beyond the agreed upon meeting time. He was irritated by the arrogance and presumption of the man, but he was in no position to quibble over punctuality—he was being paid too well for that. He was torn between annoyance, fear and relief when he finally heard footsteps approaching on the creaking pier. The new arrival stopped shy of stepping into the moonlight, choosing the cover of the shadows instead.

"I didn't expect to see you back so soon, Inspector Keller."

"I was gone a whole week." Already Keller didn't like the tone of the conversation.

"I mean I didn't expect to see you back until you'd gotten the job done."

"Look, I tried. I questioned everyone who had any part in it and looked into every angle. There just wasn't enough evidence." He hated the sound of desperation in his voice.

"You undoubtedly did your best, but . . . " The words trailed off, leaving Keller to fill in the blanks. He didn't like what he came up with.

"You're damn right I did my best. Now are we done?"

"Done? You didn't even begin! Do you have any idea what that woman cost me? What she took from me?" His voice rose to a shout as his devastation and hatred overwhelmed him.

"Look, this has gone far enough! What exactly do you want with Teresa Lisbon?" Keller shouted in return, a gallant attempt to cover his own uneasiness.

The man in the shadows stood completely still, willing himself back to quiet control. He had a score to settle with Teresa Lisbon. When his source in the SFPD had told him about Carlton's body washing up in the bay, he thought it was manna from heaven. Making his own discreet inquiries and hiring a private detective who wasn't too particular or nice in his methods as long as the pay was good, he had discovered enough information to carry out his plan. The finishing touches had depended on Keller's trip to Sacramento. Apparently he had overestimated the cop. Now he would have to finish the job himself. He wouldn't wait on the niceties of evidence or proof, and that made Keller a loose end.

He had never killed another human being. Perhaps using the knife wasn't the best way to go about it the first time. He had been so close he could feel Keller's panting on his face—felt him grasping at his coat in panic. He knew the moment the heartbeat stilled against the blade. Not long ago he would have been horrified by what he had done. Now he was mesmerized by the enthralling brutality of it. He let the dead man fall back none too gently and pulled the knife out of his chest before reaching down to close the staring eyes. He took a rag from his pocket and made for his car as he wiped the blade down.

Hurting Teresa Lisbon had been his desire—forcing her to forfeit her job, ruining her reputation, seeing her in prison. Now he knew that would never be enough. He had to be in Sacramento before daylight.


	6. Chapter 6

6. PRIORITIES

It had been nearly a week, and he couldn't figure out what was wrong with her. There had been some shift of which he was completely unaware, and their relationship was back to boss and consultant, except they spent less time together than before. She opted most often to ride with Cho when they traveled outside the office, suffering his company in the car only when necessary, and even then with one of the other agents. She was forever meeting with Hightower or calling one of the other team members into her office, so even if he had wanted to talk about what was going on at work, he wouldn't have had the opportunity. And there was always an excuse for not spending the evening together. It was as if the last few weeks had never happened. Except that they had.

He kept up the façade of charm and nonchalance, but it didn't take long for the others to notice. Cho was the first. When they were all together, his eyes would shift back and forth between Lisbon and Jane, and he would sigh as he settled into the uncomfortable atmosphere. Grace looked crestfallen, as if she was living through her own romantic disappointment and took to hovering over her boss like a worried butterfly. She would periodically cast looks at Jane that conveyed every question from, "Are you okay?" to "What did you do?" Neither Jane nor Lisbon gave any answer to the question she was dying to ask. Rigsby had been able to return to his usual routine of eating in the bullpen, no longer bothered by the near constant reminders that his boss was both a woman and was involved romantically with _Jane_ of all people. But the fourth day in, he had paused in eating his half-gone double bacon cheeseburger to turn and look at Jane contemplatively where he lay on the couch. Rigsby chewed the bite he was working on slowly then swallowed. He looked at his cheeseburger as if it had offended him then wrapped it up and threw it into his wastebasket. This was very bad.

Jane had worried at first that she may have actually had some sort of mystery appointment that day—something to do with work or her health. But as time passed, he knew it had everything to do with him . . . with _them_. He used every trick, trap, touch, every tool at his disposal to get her to talk to him in the few opportunities he managed to grasp, but the woman was absolutely unassailable. What had happened when he walked out of her office on that afternoon that had so completely turned everything around? He needed to figure this out. He was losing her.

And if that weren't enough, he had come to have the unnerving feeling at those times when he _was_ allowed to leave the building with her that they were being watched. Sometimes, he would catch Cho surveying their surroundings, his usual enigmatic expression tinged with a hint of unease. The agent would take a step closer to Lisbon, as if to shield her from what he couldn't see. Jane discreetly took him aside shortly after he began noticing it and asked what was going on. Cho assured him there had been no threats, nothing specific to warrant his concern. It was just a feeling. Jane guessed being part of Lisbon's protection detail when Red John was after her had heightened Cho's already ingrained desire to keep his boss and friend safe.

He had to figure out what was going on on both fronts. While he desperately missed her, her safety was paramount. Somewhere along the line she had taught him to establish priorities.

He was relieved when the Carlton problem seemed to just evaporate. He hadn't needed to lift a finger, even though his promise that he would do anything to help her had been sincere. Whatever Bosco had done, he had covered his tracks like a professional. He had come closer to catching Red John using the conventional methods than anyone else had. He was a good cop, just as Lisbon had said. It seemed he would have made an excellent criminal as well.

For some reason, Jane thought his current uneasiness had something to do with Joe Carlton's death. He was frustrated that he couldn't talk to Lisbon about it, and he wouldn't talk to anyone else. She had told him about the events all those years ago in confidence. Whatever she thought of him, he would never betray her trust.

His musings ended abruptly when Lisbon stepped into the bullpen to announce they had a case. It was just southeast of the city, near one of the state parks. He stood, waiting to hear to which vehicle he would be assigned, closing his eyes for an instant in relief when she decided he would ride with her. Cho was coming along, too, but he refused to be disappointed. He would take what he could get.

"How much further?" The park ranger was trudging up the steep path in front of her, seeming to be just as affected by the heat as she was.

"Just over this rise," he panted. "Sorry we had to walk it. There's just no way your SUV or our cruisers could get up here."

She nodded behind him, relieved that all they had to do was look at the body. Somebody else would be responsible for carting it out.

They came over the rise, and—as promised—one dead body. Middle-aged man, gunshot wound to the head, shot from a distance, but close enough to do a lot of damage. He didn't have a face anymore. By now they were all pretty much used to the gruesome scene. Squatting next to the body, she resisted the urge to look at Jane to see if he was flinching in that way he did over a bloodied corpse. She grimaced when she felt herself nearly smile at the thought and managed to school her expression into one of bland professionalism before she stood up from examining the victim.

The all walked the scene, Van Pelt photographing as she and the others pointed out bits and pieces that may or may not be evidence, each of them commenting on anything they thought might be significant. She asked Jane for his opinion, again without making eye contact, and he delivered the most succinct analysis of a crime scene she'd ever gotten from him. He was getting irritated over the state of their relationship, but she didn't care. She didn't want to talk about it. She would wait until he couldn't take it anymore—let him to be the one to bring it up. A former boyfriend had called her the Queen of Denial and Emotional Procrastination. She decided that was fine with her. It had worked for her in the past. She had no reason to hold him to any of his promises now. It would be better for both of them if he just gave up and went his own way—she could start moving on sooner. But right now, she just felt drained to the point of emptiness. It was if he was already gone.

"All right, forensics can start collecting. Have your coroner bring the body down and get it ready for transport. Let's pack everything up and head back." They had done everything they could at the scene, and she was pulling off her latex gloves when she missed her footing and suddenly lurched forward just as a shot rang out, hitting the tree branch immediately above her head.

She and everyone just behind her dropped instinctively to the ground. Everyone further back crouched, weapons drawn in raw-nerved alertness, and several of the rangers were shouting. Lisbon raised her head and barked orders over her shoulder to the space behind her, reestablishing her command of the situation and silencing the others. She started to rise, but Jane had gone down just behind and to the side of her, and when he reached out and pushed down on the back of her thigh, she flattened to the ground again.

In the distance, they heard a vehicle driving away. It sounded heavy and powerful, made for rough terrain. Wherever the shooter had been, he was cutting his losses and leaving . . . they hoped. Tense and watchful, Cho rose tentatively and started up the hill in the direction from which the shot seemed to have come, his weapon held high and tight. About sixty yards up, he found a spot at the crest, hidden by an outcropping of rocks. The shooter wasn't a pro. He had left his casing.

Confident that the imminent danger had passed, all of the rangers holstered their weapons. Rigsby, Cho and Van Pelt relaxed their stances but kept guns at the ready. Lisbon ordered everyone back down the hill, and they all started moving, ready to send forensics back up to take their place. Jane could only feel her shaking because he had his hand on the small of her back. He wondered if she could feel his hand trembling against her. Relieved she was uninjured, he resisted the urge to pull her into his arms and hold her—to cradle her head against his cheek and feel her warm and alive against him. But he pressed on, wanting to speed her to the relative safety of their vehicle. At the bottom of the hill, she relinquished the keys to Cho and climbed in the back seat. Foregoing his usual place at shotgun, he took the seat next to her. He reached out to take her hand, but she pulled away. Whatever connection they'd had up on the hill in the moment of danger was gone.

When they got back to the office, Cho headed straight to Hightower's office, and Jane followed Lisbon to hers. Within minutes, Lisbon's boss stood facing her over her own desk, Cho standing behind her, his arms folded over his chest. Glancing at Jane then turning to Lisbon, she spoke, direct and to the point.

"Do you have any idea who would want to shoot you, Agent Lisbon?"

"There's no reason to believe at this point that the shot was meant for me, ma'am. We had all just been standing together—it could've been somebody shooting at Jane."

Hightower was only momentarily diverted, when she saw Jane arch one eyebrow and nod in agreement with that very likely possibility, but she did not allow Lisbon's attempt at humor to deter her from the matter at hand.

"Agent Lisbon, Agent Cho tells me that you were leaving the scene, that you were definitely in front of the group and that the shooter knew enough of what he was doing to use a certain amount of precision. Until this is fully settled, I'm afraid I have to insist that you do not go into the field."

"Ma'am, I assure you—"

"Teresa!" She had raised her voice, something that she never did in a professional setting. She closed her eyes and sought for calm. Taking a deep breath, she continued more quietly.

"Teresa. Someone shot at you today. Someone wants to harm you, probably wants to kill you. I won't take that lightly. You _will_ do as I say, and you _will_ stay out of the field. Please do not fight me on this."

She was a little put out that Lisbon was not only making her beg, but was forcing her to use her "mommy" voice as well. She was willing to admit she had not handled things well with her SCU lead agent at the start of their working relationship, but she really did like Teresa Lisbon and cared about her. The SCU would work the murder case, but Lisbon's safety would be a top priority. She was relieved when Teresa acquiesced with a nod.

As Hightower left her office, Lisbon shot a scowl at Cho.

"Tattletale."

"Yep."

"Look what you've done now. I can't go—"

"I know. I was there. Look, Boss. Something's going on. I don't know what it is, and I don't like it much, but there was no way I was going to let it alone."

The two agents held one another's gaze for an uncomfortable moment, and Jane watched their silent battle of wills. Without shifting her gaze, Lisbon's look softened. It was an expression of understanding, not giving in. It was enough to satisfy Cho. His shoulders relaxed and he turned as if to leave but paused at the door.

"We'll leave at six."

She nodded and dropped wearily into her chair.

"I'm coming home with you tonight."

"Cho's coming home with me."

"Teresa, I don't know what's been going on with us lately—," He was careful not to accuse her by saying it was something going on with her. "—but I won't argue with you on this. I _am_ coming home with you."

She looked away and swallowed. He could tell it was hard for her. But not nearly as hard as it was for him to hear her words, harsh and cold.

"Cho will be there. I don't need you."


	7. Chapter 7

7. OUT OF NOWHERE

Another week passed, and there had been no more attempts made on Lisbon's life. They were at a dead end on the murder case, so Hightower had agreed with Lisbon's assertion that the murderer may have just taken a shot at them to rattle them—a theory as good as confirmed when the shell casing Cho had found tied the shooter's weapon to that used to kill the faceless man in the park. Cho was taken off protection detail.

Lisbon had decided to stay late at the office to catch up on the backlog of paperwork, and had asked Grace to pick up Will and take him home with her for the night. She was fortunate to have such a good friend who seemed to have as many baby toys at her home as Lisbon had—"just in case".

It was nearing eleven o'clock, and—of course—everyone had gone home. Everyone except Jane. Things between them were well beyond strained now. There seemed to be nothing between them at all. Lisbon didn't speak to him unless she had to, and Jane had ceased trying to draw her out.

Her office phone rang—odd for that time of night. It was a cop from the nearest precinct of the Sacramento PD. Someone had called in a tip on a dead body in an alley near the CBI. The locals were a bit short-handed and could someone from her team check it out. She assured him she would take care of it and hung up with a deep sigh. It was against protocol to go alone, and she had only one choice for company.

As she walked to the bullpen, she could make out his sleeping form on the couch before she reached the door. She paused only briefly to look at him in the dim light the cleaning crew left on, and her heart wrenched in her chest. Mastering her emotions, she squared her shoulders and spoke to him.

"Jane," she barked out none too gently. "Just got a call from Sacramento PD. They need us to check on something."

She could tell he had awakened at the first sound of her voice. He hadn't jerked, but had tensed, ready to hear what she would say. His body seemed to sag, and then he pulled himself off the couch. She waited in the elevator for him to catch up. As he approached where she stood holding the door for him, she took in his appearance for the first time in days. His suit was wrinkled, and he looked like he hadn't shaved or slept in a while. She wouldn't feel sorry for him. This was his own doing. Not for the first time, she wondered why he didn't just leave. He didn't need anything from them anymore, and she had only been a diversion—a way to pass the time until he decided which offer to accept. Any pity or softness of heart she may have felt for him vanished. By the time he was in the elevator, she just wanted to get this over with.

They had been riding silently for about five minutes when Jane turned to her. He didn't miss the stiffening of her back or the tightening of her hands on the wheel, obviously in apprehension at what he might say. He was tired of wondering what he had done that was so wrong that she couldn't and wouldn't forgive him.

"Where are we headed?"

'Sacramento police got a call about a body in an alley. They're short-handed tonight and wanted to know if we would check it out."

She looked straight ahead as she drove and didn't offer any more information. Knowing she didn't want conversation, he turned to look out the window. He was angry, and he felt the bitterness course through him as surely as his blood. Where had this all gone wrong? Was it just over two weeks ago that he looked forward to every opportunity to hold her in his arms? That he sat with her and played with her baby in the evenings in her home? She was cold and hard and strange to him now. He couldn't make her love him anymore than he could make her tell him why she had stopped—if she ever had. He couldn't think about this anymore. He was drowning in questions and grieving for her as if she had died on that hill in the park. It was time for him to think about something else. Time to think about what was next.

She pulled the SUV to a stop on the street just outside the alley entrance. They both slowly got out and headed around the corner knowing they wouldn't speak to one another unless it was necessary for the task at hand. Jane had no intention of talking, but as usual he just couldn't help himself.

"You know, it might help if I had a clue as to exactly what I'm looking for."

The edge in his voice told her he wasn't just talking about the present situation.

"I told you, a dead body."

"That's it? There's no more information? Nothing else you can _share_?."

Now he was just being childish. What did it matter to him anyway? As far as she was concerned, she was making it easier for him to leave.

"I'm just repeating what SPD told me. _There is nothing more._"

"Teresa—"

"Just look for the body, Jane."

Two industrial lights hung from a suspended bit of wire and wood along the length of the alleyway. One bulb was out, and the other was flickering. There were a lot of shadows, a lot of places a body could be hidden.

"I wish you would talk to me."

It was said so quietly and sincerely that it caught her completely off guard. But she wouldn't get sucked in again. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"There's nothing to talk about."

"I wish I could know that for sure. I wish I could know whether or not there's something for _me_ to talk about."

They kept walking, moving cans and pushing boxes aside. Sounds from the street were drifting down the alley. Two men were shouting in a good-natured mock fight. A car engine turned over. She noticed he had put on gloves. She didn't look up from her search, but now that he had brought it up, she felt compelled to carry on the conversation.

"I would've thought _you_ would be the one to _start_ talking."

He frowned as he pushed aside a full bag of trash, not wanting to stop the menial work that kept them from looking at one another. It seemed easier to talk that way.

"What do you mean by that? What could I have to talk about?"

"Nothing. I don't mean anything." The edge was back to her voice. Halfway down, he found a deeply recessed doorway. She was standing in the open alley behind him now, watching him as he tried the door, his back to her.

"No, Teresa, you're the one who obviously, _finally_ has something to say. So let's hear it."

Now he was just standing there, still facing the door, not wanting to turn around and see her face. He was vaguely aware of the car somewhere outside the alley gunning its engine.

"I told you, there's nothing to say. Nothing but good-bye."

"So that's it? We just move on? Go our separate ways?"

"I wouldn't want to hold you back."

Her voice was so harsh now, he almost heard a snarl in it. Suddenly all of his hurt and worry welled up in a wave of anger that pulsed over him so violently it actually heated his skin and he wheeled on her to retaliate. But he didn't get the chance.

Tires squealed at one end of the alley, and she turned to face the sound as the light above her flickered on clear and bright. Suddenly, the car slammed into her with such force that it ripped her from his line of sight. He heard three sickening, crashing thuds then the squeal of tires as the car exited the alley at the other end. She must have landed just outside the recessed entry because he saw her arm stretch out in an awkward way on the pavement only feet from where he stood, falling like a ribbon that had been dropped to the floor. Her palm lay open and her fingers curled up toward the night sky, the rest of her hidden from his view. Her hand was covered in blood.

He moved to her and knelt, his hands fluttering back and forth over her crumpled body. When he saw the blood pooling, arcing out from her head in a widening puddle, he began to panic, his only words, "No, no, no, no, no . . .," repeated over and over, beginning in a shocked murmur and rising to a near keening wail. He had to get himself under control. _I don't know what to do—what do I do?_ _What would __**she**__ do?"_

A memory came to him of Teresa dialing a phone, her hands covered and shirt spotted with Bosco's blood as she tried to give orders and make a call on her cell. As if following her example, he reached for his phone.

"Cho. We're in an alley off of C Street between 13th and 14th. Lisbon's hurt bad. She needs help."

He heard a clipped response before he snapped his phone shut and let it clatter to the pavement as he half collapsed, half sat next to her, thankful for Cho's innate ability to know when to talk and when to act. He hesitated to touch her, not knowing her injuries, but, again, he couldn't resist. She lay prone in the dirty alley, her body twisted and her hair falling over her face. He gingerly took her uninjured hand in one of his, the fingers of his other hand circling her wrist. Her pulse was there, weak and thready, and he felt as if he was chasing it from one beat to the next. He waited to hear the sirens, willing them to come faster.

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He drove away, taking satisfaction in the impact, the slam, and the tossing body. It all sounded like something final—something he could never take back. He knew it wouldn't be long now. They would trace the tip, and the ones whose help he had bought so cheaply would be found out, but he didn't care. He didn't care about anything anymore. He had nothing left to live for.

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Cho arrived at the scene while the paramedics were still working on her. They lifted her body onto the gurney and hoisted it into the back of the ambulance. They wouldn't let Jane ride with them—Lisbon was too badly injured, and they would need room to work on her. Taking pity on his friend and knowing where he needed to be, Cho pulled Jane to his car and sped away to the hospital

The surgery lasted for hours. Grace and Rigsby had arrived within minutes of Cho and Jane and they sat in the waiting room without speaking. Since she had tersely introduced herself as Dr. Alicia Townen before going into the OR, the doctor had sent no word out. There were no updates—no assurances that all was going well or that Lisbon was even alive. They had ceased watching the door long ago. Finally, _finally_ the surgeon entered the waiting room and took a moment to survey the sorrowful group gathered there.

Agent Kimball Cho stood staring out the window on one side of the room, hands on his hips. _Definitely a close friend._ Agents Van Pelt and . . . _what was it? . . . –oh yes_—Rigsby sat next to one another. His hand kept flexing toward the woman next to him as if he wanted to touch her, offer her comfort. She didn't know what held him back. The poor woman was definitely in need of it. Van Pelt sat, arms folded tight around her, almost curled into herself. As Dr. Townen watched, the woman kept glancing across the room at the man they had introduced only as "Jane". She couldn't help but notice how handsome he was. And he looked . . . bereaved was the word that came to mind. He looked like he'd already lost her. She was glad she could offer them at least _some_ good news.

"We're done." She spoke softly, but their eyes jerked to her as if she had shouted.

"She's alive but just barely. She suffered a severe brain injury with intracranial bleeding. We were able to stop the bleed, but there's still quite a bit of swelling. Because of the placement of the injury, there's little we can do to ease the pressure . . ." She paused a moment, frowning before she continued with a renewed optimism. "But the fact that she got treatment so quickly is several points in her favor. The pain would be agonizing, so we're keeping her asleep for the next few days at least. When the swelling goes down, we'll try to wake her up."

_Try?_

"Her pelvic bone was cracked, but we're not too worried about that now. Nothing shifted, and the immobility should help it mend. She has a compound fracture to her left forearm. There's some bruising to three of her ribs. Her back was also severely wrenched—she'll need a lot of physical therapy . . ."

Her voice drifted off, and she knew they all comprehended the end of her thought. . . . _if she wakes up._

Normally, she wouldn't offer what she was about to, but they were all so sad. The patient lay now in a state of deep coma that it certainly couldn't hurt her.

"She's in recovery right now. It will be a while before we move her into a room in the ICU. You can see her one at a time before you leave, just for a few minutes. Go home and get some rest. By the time you come back, we'll have her situated."

Cho had the irrational feeling this was all somehow his fault. Or maybe Jane's. He shook it off and headed for the recovery room. Grace leapt to her feet.

"What are you doing?" she hissed at him, looking sideways at Jane.

"We'll all go, then Jane last so he can stay with her longer."

Cho was no more than a minute, then Grace then Rigsby, each of them staying just long enough to be assured that she was indeed alive, each leaving with tears stinging their eyes. Lying in the bed, pale and small, she didn't look like there was anything left of her.

Cho and Grace stayed with Jane, and when Rigsby came out, visibly shaken, they took their leave of him. He walked into the cubicle and stood just inside the curtain, feeling more pain than he would've thought possible. He loved her as much as he had loved Angela. Differently, but certainly no less. But he never thought he would have been able to feel this abject sense of loss and hurt over anyone ever again. The knowledge that she no longer wanted him left him devastated.

A nurse pushed around the curtain behind him with a padded chair she'd found somewhere.

"The doctor told me to bring this for you. She said she didn't think you'd be leaving anytime soon."

He nodded his gratitude and put the chair sideways against the bed and sat, holding her hand and looking at her. He wouldn't leave her until he had to. She may not want him there when she awakened, but he would stay as long as she was unable to push him away.


	8. Chapter 8

8. IN GOOD HANDS

Over the coming days, he stayed with her, talking, reading and watching old movies. Grace came every day, bringing him a change of clothes and staying at Lisbon's bedside while he showered and changed. He knew she stayed to make sure he did.

He became a fixture at the hospital, the doctor and nurses surprised only when they _didn't_ find him at her side. He waited hungrily for each report, any sign that she was improving. The others stayed at work until eight or nine each night, covering for the both of them and working near feverishly to uncover the identity of Lisbon's attacker. Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt had reached out to every contact they had in local, state and even Federal law enforcement, hoping they would catch a break. Everyone knew and respected Lisbon, and all had pledged whatever help they could give.

Five days into what felt like a nightmare from which none of them could awaken, as he was getting ready to leave the office to head up to the hospital with Rigsby, Cho's phone rang. He froze on the spot, listening, staring unseeing at Jane's couch. The call ended and, still looking in the same direction, he snapped his phone shut and held it in his hand so tightly the outer casing groaned against the pressure.

Rigsby watched him, curious as to what could have brought such a murderous expression to his face. He had a glimpse of Cho as he must have been in the gang, all defiance and rage.

"Cho?"

He took a deep breath to calm himself enough to not want to cause immediate harm to anyone or anything around him. Then, he turned to look at Rigsby, his eyes as sharp and menacing as his voice. He was only able to force out two words.

"The hospital_._"

Jane wasn't surprised to see them. They came every evening at about the same time. He guessed Cho was able to handle the paperwork faster than Lisbon without his constant interruptions. Grace brought Will in the mornings for a short visit, and Cho and Rigsby came in the evenings. It hadn't taken them long to develop a rhythm of visits and comfort. It was how they worked.

He could tell something was up the minute Cho stepped inside the room, his eyes black and glittering. The agent looked at him only briefly then moved to the machine that controlled Lisbon's fluids and meds. Rigsby stepped to the other side of her bed to stand just in front of Jane where he rose from his chair. Jane watched in stunned disbelief as Cho cut off the drugs that kept her asleep and pain free. He tried to move forward, but it was impossible to push past Rigsby.

"What are you doing?" His voice was a mixture of pleading and shock. He knew what they were about. They must have gotten a lead. He understood what Cho was doing—even understood why it perhaps had to be done. But understanding did nothing to diminish the impulse to protect her. He tried to push past Rigsby, but the bigger man wouldn't budge.

"She has to wake up. It'll just take a few minutes."

The icy calm of Cho's voice only made what was happening more surreal. The three men stood frozen, stilled in the horror of waiting. Cho was right. It only took a few long minutes. Her brow furrowed, and Jane didn't think he could bear it, but he wouldn't look away.

_What? . . . Something hard under my hands. My hands hurt. My arm . . . Where . . . where is he? I just had him . . . right there. There and then he was gone. Hard to breathe . . . so hard . . . Where is he? Lost. I've lost him. It hurts . . . Oh, god . . . my head._

"Patrick?" His name passed her lips in a tortured whisper. Now he was practically holding on to Rigsby. Jane thought fleetingly of Bosco again, lying comatose in the hospital near death, and her face when he had tried to cut off his drugs to get information on Red John. He wished Teresa had never seen him do something so heartless.

Cho leaned over her, looking intently at her still closed eyes and spoke low and close to her ear.

"Boss? . . . Lisbon? . . . TERESA!" He started softly, but on her given name, his voice was firm as if he was ordering her awake. She turned her head the slightest bit, her attention caught by his tone.

"Did you see who did this . . . who did this to you? You heard the tires squeal. You turned toward the car. There was a light flickering in the alley. Did you see? Tell me, Teresa, did you see him?"

He was feeding her as much of Jane's statement as he could, hoping she could tell him something that would make this worth what he was putting her through. His voice was full of tension and pain. Pain at what he was forced to do to her. Her head twisted back and forth on the pillow.

"Hurts."

"I know. I'm sorry, but you have to remember. Remember and I'll let you go back to sleep. The car came at you, and the light came on. _Did you see him?_"

Her brow furrowed deeper, and she started writhing as the pain mounted.

"Dreyer."

Cho pulled back from her and restarted the sedative and morphine. When he turned to look at the other two men, a thin sheen of perspiration covered his face.

"Drier?" Jane looked at him in confusion.

"Dreyer Whelan."

"Katie Whelan's father." It was a statement, dry and brittle. Jane remembered the man from the investigation into McTeer's murder. He had somehow gotten hold of the incident report on his daughter's rape and blamed Bosco and Lisbon for not arresting McTeer sooner. Mostly he blamed Lisbon. From her own words, Jane knew why.

"A friend of mine from the SFPD called. Katie Whelan committed suicide three weeks ago. Jayce Keller's body was found in the bay tangled under a pier—dead for at least a week. They pulled his phone records. Found calls from Whelan. My guy phoned Sacramento PD on a hunch to see if he could get a handle on what Keller had going up here. Found out about Lisbon and asked them to trace the tip. Turns out Keller and one of the cops at the SPD were working for Whelan—both jammed up with drugs and gambling debts. I needed confirmation before we could go after him."

Just as enraged as Cho now, Jane tried to move past Rigsby again, believing there was no reason for him to be restrained any longer. But Rigsby still would not let him pass, turning his head to Cho for instructions.

"Stay here. She wouldn't want you in this." And with that, Cho turned and strode from the room. Rigsby looked down at Jane and put his hand on his shoulder.

"You've got that, right? You're not going anywhere?"

Jane nodded, realizing Dreyer Whelan's fate had been taken out of his hands. He had complete confidence in what he had seen in Cho's eyes before he exited the room. Satisfied, Rigsby turned on his heel and followed Cho, running to catch up.

Turning back to Lisbon, Jane stroked her hair and kissed her softly on the forehead. Exhausted now, he lowered himself back into his chair and took hold of her hand as she fell back into a deep, peaceful and—he hoped—healing sleep.

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The hour-long ride to Whelan's Marin County home was almost completely silent, only broken by Rigsby's call to Grace to let her know where they were headed and instruct her to call Hightower for a warrant. She called back fifteen minutes later to say Hightower had gotten hold of Judge "Dread" Hildred, and he would sign the warrant as soon as she could get it worked up and faxed to him.

Cho parked across the street from Whelan's house. As he got out of the car, he pulled a crowbar out from under his front seat. He strode toward the garage door, Rigsby rushing to keep up with him. Cho's face was like stone.

"Cho! Hey, man, what are you planning on doing? We don't have a warrant yet!"

He gave no answer but walked straight to the side garage entrance and cleared the glass with one smashing blow. He reached in and turned the lock and pushed the door open. Moving to the car, he located the obvious evidences of impact, using the crowbar to point out each one succinctly to Rigsby

"Dent on the front left fender. Crack in the top of the windshield. Looks like fabric from her jacket caught in the metal just above. Indentation in the trunk lid, passenger side."

Rigsby was sickened at the mental picture it conjured. He had hit her hard, throwing her body up and over the car—at least three points of impact before she slammed onto the pavement. He didn't see how she had survived at all.

The door from the house opened and Dreyer Whelan came out in full attack mode. "What are you-?" He didn't get a chance to finish the question. Cho launched at him, catching him at the waist and throwing him off balance. Then, taking hold of his neck and upper arm, he heaved him to the floor and beat him viciously, periodically slamming his head against the concrete floor. Rigsby stood to the side and recited Whelan's Miranda rights. As far as he was concerned and was willing to officially state, Whelan resisted arrest so violently that drastic measures were required to subdue him. He trusted Cho to know just how much hurt the human head could take.

His phone buzzed signaling a text message. Breathing deep and ragged, Cho cuffed Whelan and stood over him. Rigsby texted a reply and shut his phone before dropping it into his pocket.

"What was that?" Cho wiped away the sweat that had collected on his forehead.

"Grace. Warrant came through."

Cho heaved Whelan up off the floor and started to half walk, half drag him out of the garage.

"Good."

Rigsby ran ahead to the car to get the door.


	9. Chapter 9

9. THE LAST WALL

Lisbon made substantial progress in the days following her surgery. By the end of the first week, Dr. Townen was very optimistic about her chances for recovery. She told Jane he must be good medicine for her. It was obvious the doctor was somewhat enthralled by him as well.

Two weeks after that awful night, they took Lisbon off the sedative that kept her asleep and decreased the amount of morphine she was getting. Over the next two days, she slowly began to awaken, and Jane made himself scarce.

Her brothers came the second day when she finally fully awakened. Cho had kept them up to date on her progress, for which they were extremely grateful since they all lived clear across the country. They stayed over the next few days, and when they were sure she was completely out of the woods, they all went back to their respective lives, glad to have had the chance to see her and one another and to make up for some of the hurts of the past.

It was Saturday, and Grace brought Will up for a longer visit, planning to take him home after lunch for a nap then come back up in the early evening for a while. Lisbon had been glad for the routine of visits her team had instituted while she was unconscious— Grace and Will in the mornings, Cho and Rigsby visiting at night. But Lisbon couldn't help but think she was missing something. She hadn't expected Jane to come see her. Goodness knows she hadn't given him any reason to care what happened to her anymore. When she said as much to Grace, the younger agent couldn't resist giving Lisbon just a little piece of her mind.

"You're missing him."

"Yes." She admitted it begrudgingly.

"Serves you right."

"What? You don't know anything about it, Grace. You can't possibly—"

"I know he sat in shock in the waiting room the whole time during your surgery. I know he stayed with you every day and every night while you were unconscious. I know he talked to you and held you and read to you and made sure you were never alone. I don't know what he did, Teresa, but surely he's made up for it in some part."

Lisbon was stunned. She felt like she could cry, and even though it wasn't at all like her to do so, that's exactly what she did. She covered her face and wept. She had been so angry, she only now realized she hadn't even cried over him. She had been left so many times, she should've been used to it. But she wasn't. She never would be. It hurt. And he knew that. _He knew that._ But what Grace had told her didn't sound like someone who was just walking away. Not completely anyway. For the first time it occurred to her to wonder what might have happened if she had swallowed her pride and her fear and just asked him to stay. She hadn't told him she loved him. What if she had told him she loved him and asked him not to go—not to leave her? She had been so stubborn and afraid, but now she considered the possibility that she could have changed his mind. Maybe he had just been waiting for her to tell him how she felt. The words seemed so simple now—why had it been so difficult for her to just say them? She realized she had been testing him—testing whether he would stay or abandon her, holding him just a little away, distancing herself, to see if he would push past and just do and be what she wanted and needed in spite of herself. She had been testing him to see if he was like everyone else.

But that was just it—Jane _wasn't'_ like everyone else. He never had been. Not even before, when they were just friends. That was one of the reasons why she had loved him, and that's why she had been so certain of his love for her. How could she have been so foolish? She almost felt it physically, deep in herself, when her last wall crumbled. But surely it was too late now. After the way she had treated him and the things she had said . . .

Grace held her as she cried, and when Lisbon turned away and curled onto her side, she knew her boss probably needed to be alone. She and Will would have a quiet lunch at home.

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Back at the CBI, Jane was going through boxes of stuff he had accumulated in the years he had worked there. There was no case—Dreyer Whelan had confessed to both attempting to murder Lisbon and murdering the man in the park to lure her there—and not being at the hospital had him feeling rather at loose ends. It was late afternoon, and the only reason he had come in to the office was because he didn't know what else to do with himself. He knew she was awake, and he needed to do something to keep his mind off of how much he wanted to be with her. He thought a lot about that night—the things she had said. He still didn't know what she meant when she told him she didn't want to hold him back. He didn't know how to make things right, and she didn't seem like she even cared to try. She had said they should move on. So, he was going through the boxes. He didn't know exactly what he was going to do or when he was going to do it, but he thought some organizing was in order. Best to be ready.

Being Jane, the tiresome business grew old after about half an hour, and he sat on the couch to take a break. He heard the rustling sound that came from under his seat cushion. Slipping the folder he kept hidden there from its resting place, he opened it and began to read through some of the papers it contained.

There were some pretty good offers. He perused the first letter and the reply to an inquiry he had made. It seemed pointless now when he thought about his reasoning behind responding to some of the letters. Maybe he should read through them again, take them seriously. He pulled the top pages aside to look at the second letter. Something was caught in the paper clip. A single strand of long, dark, curling hair. _How did that get in there?_

He laughed. It was so stupid and so silly he had to laugh. It really was ridiculous. That day—he had gone over it a hundred times in his head. Everything was fine and then he went to get tea, and she came out to sit on his couch and everything fell apart. She had found the folder. And she had thought he was leaving. Silly, stupid woman. Stupid, stubborn, proud, little woman. He picked up the folder and practically ran to the elevator. He didn't know if she would want to hear what he would have to say. But he would do everything—_anything_—to _make_ her listen.

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She had cried herself to sleep. She was dreaming of a place she had never been, the rooms turning into places in a garden as she walked through them. Then she was at work, but the CBI looked like her old high school. Then she saw Jane. He was calling to her. She wanted to go to him, but someone had taken hold of her shoulder. They wouldn't let go, and she wanted to get away. She moaned in her sleep. She could still hear him calling her. _Let me go . . . why won't you let me go to him?_

"Teresa. Sweetheart, wake up. Come on . . . open your eyes."

He was leaning over her, gently shaking her shoulder, his face only a few inches from hers. He knew she was still getting a little medicine now and then for the pain, but he was starting to worry. She wasn't waking up. She moaned as if something was wrong. Surely it shouldn't take this long. He shook her shoulder harder and said her name again, and she came awake with a start, her eyes wide and suddenly tear-filled. She raised her hand and laid her palm against his chest.

"Please don't go. I love you, and I don't know what I'll do if you leave me."

"Don't be silly. Where on earth would I go?"

She sobbed so hard he could barely understand her words. Something about letters and money and incentive plans and Rome and so far away. He held the folder up so she could see it.

"Are you talking about this?"

Her eyes widened, and she looked from him to the folder and back again. Then she dropped her eyes to look at her hand where it still lay against him.

"When were you going to tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"That you were looking for another job. That you weren't going to stay."

He winced at the hurt and vulnerability in her voice. All she had ever wanted was for someone to stay. He wanted to draw her out. He wanted her to talk to him. And he wanted to teach her a lesson, albeit in a loving way. He wanted to teach her not to assume the worst and then fear it. She could trust him. She didn't need to protect herself from him. Instead, he decided he couldn't stand not making it easy for her.

"Teresa, I had no intention of accepting any of these job offers."

Her eyes narrowed at him. There it was again: the distrust. Did she think he was outright lying to her? He should be very angry with her, but he loved her too much.

"You replied. You asked about incentives and insurance—"

"My year is nearly up, and—"

"And you're leaving."

"No." His voice dipped low then came back up as he drew the word out. "I'm negotiating a better contract. My current one-year term of employment is nearly up, too. I've been a bit steadier the past few months, thanks to you, and there have been a lot of requests for my help in other units at the CBI. I was going to use the offers to convince Madeleine what a valuable commodity I've become."

She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes shifting back and forth between his. She found the truth in them, and her hand clawed into a fist, taking a deep hold on the front of his shirt.

"You're not going away?"

He shook his head at her.

"You're staying." Relief washed over her, and she tightened her hold on him.

He nodded and grimaced, tears coming to his eyes.

"Jane . . . Patrick, I'm so sorry. Please don't cry."

He just barely managed to get out the words, painfully and haltingly.

"Pulling . . . my chest hairs."

She laughed, releasing him and dropping her hand heavily to the bed. He collapsed against her side, his face burying into her hair, breathing deep. She smelled so good. He had almost forgotten. She raised her hand back up to his chest and slid it up and around his neck, running her fingers through his curls. He circled his arms around her waist, sliding them between her and the mattress then shook her gently, his face still buried in her hair.

"Woman, don't you ever do this to me again."

"I won't."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Scoot over." He murmured into her hair.

"There isn't much room."

"We don't need much."

He pulled away just far enough to drop a kiss on her nose and help her roll to her side then climbed in behind her, spooning her back to him.

"Lift your head."

When she did, he swept her hair to the side and under her head, baring her neck to him so he could nuzzle her. He inhaled her scent again.

"I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too. I love you, Ja—Patrick."

"Love you, too."

She hummed and pushed back against him, stretching like a cat. He closed his eyes in contentment and tightened his hold on her, one thumb brushing lightly against the undercurve of her breast.

"Jane?" she said, only a hint of warning in her tone.

"Sh! Sleeping." She really didn't know what she would do with him.

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A month in the hospital had her ready to pull her hair out. She was completely off of her pain IV now, only taking pills when it was needed. She didn't understand the hold up. When she awoke that morning, her first thought was that she wanted out. And she knew just who could help her.

She turned her head to look at him. The staff had brought a couch into the room for him, and while he always started out the night on it, he always ended up lying in the bed with her. She watched him sleep for a minute, his breath warm and soft against her shoulder where the hospital gown had slipped away. But her impatience over the situation got the better of her, and she turned to face him full.

"Wake up!" She whispered as she jostled her body against his.

"Hm?" He grunted with a frown.

"Wake up! I want to get out of here."

"Can't. Doctor hasn't released you." His eyes were still closed, and she could see him slipping back into sleep.

"I can hear her talking, just down the hall. Now go get me out of here." She was gently shaking him now. He frowned and sighed in complaint.

"Teresa—"

"The sooner you get me out of here, the sooner we can sleep in a real bed."

That got his attention.

"Exactly what do you want me to do about it, woman?"

"The doctor likes you."

He pulled back and looked at her, not sure he understood her and not liking it if he did.

"I'm just lying around in here, and I can do that at home. You of all people should understand. I want out. Today!"

She leaned in and kissed him, only waiting a second or two before she traced the opening of his lips with the tip of her tongue. He inhaled deeply through his nose and deepened the kiss as he shifted his weight to hover over her, leaning his weight on the arm that had been wound around her waist. He caught himself just before he laid his weight full on top of her and broke the kiss into several light brushes of his lips against hers.

"That is not fair."

"Consider it a preview—a _taste_ of things to come."

He pushed his lips hard against hers and groaned.

"You are the worst tease in the history of mankind."

Without pulling her lips away from the warm weight and force of his she answered him, knowing she was nearing her objective.

"I promise I'll make good on it. Now go sex up the doctor lady and get me out of here."

"I live to serve."

He was back with her discharge papers in less than ten minutes.


	10. Chapter 10

10. NOT EVERY GIRL'S FAIRY TALE

She had suffered through her enforced rest period and was back to work—had been for two weeks. It was only desk duty, but after three months of intense physical therapy and Jane treating her like glass, she was more than ready. Most of her injuries had healed nicely, except that her fractured pelvis had caused some unforeseen trouble. But she had seen the doctor just that morning before coming in and had gotten a good report. She was ready to be back and more than ready to make up for lost time . . . in every way.

She wasn't released for active field duty yet, but the doctor had cleared her for strenuous activity that morning. She had been trying to convince Jane she was ready for it for the past two weeks, but he was determined to be careful of her, not wanting to slow her recovery or injure her. He was practically living with her now, staying most nights and usually sleeping in her bed. Being a woman of her word, she wanted to make good on the promise she had made in the hospital the day he got her discharged. Their evening routine varied little from one night to the next. He would come home from work, they would eat and play with Will before one of them bathed him and put him to bed. Then, the two of them would end up on the couch (or going to straight to bed) in a tangle of limbs and lips and in various stages of undress. But at the last minute, he would pull back and—holding her tightly and tucking her head under his chin—kiss her hair and tell her she needed her sleep. She would have teased him over their role reversal, but if the cold showers were as uncomfortable and ineffective for him as they were proving to be for her, she was certain the humor would be lost on him.

Once she had left the hospital and was able to stay on her own, Jane's frustrations had taken a somewhat different direction. After feeling so far away from her for those tortuous weeks and nearly losing her, he couldn't stand to be away from her for very long periods of time. During her sick leave, he would call her throughout the day, leaving at five every evening unless they had a case. Once she returned to work, being with her every day hadn't seemed to alleviate the need to keep her close. He always accompanied her when she left the building, and he had abandoned his couch for hers. He was sure it would get better as they eased back into some sense of normalcy, but sometimes when he didn't know where she was, he would nearly hyperventilate. He knew it was ridiculous, and he hoped no one noticed. They would think he was pathetic. _He_ thought he was pathetic.

"Where's Jane?" Hightower asked as she walked into the bullpen and folded her arms across her chest, as if daring them to answer her.

Grace smiled at her computer screen as Rigsby doggedly kept his head down. As senior of the three, the responsibility to reply apparently fell to Cho. He raised his eyes to Hightower's and gave a small sideways jerk of his head in the direction of Lisbon's office.

"Uh-huh," was all she said as she unfolded her arms and headed back to her own lair.

"I will never understand this thing women have about asking questions they already know the answers to." Rigsby complained. "I mean—where does she _think_ he is? He's where he always is. Glued to Boss's side."

Cho couldn't resist.

"Yeah. Unless he's glued to her—"

"Don't, man, just . . . don't."

"I thought you were over this."

"I was. But since she's been back . . . I mean, he's always in there or in the car with her. And when they're not together . . . Last week, when he stepped out for a minute and she went down to the coffee cart to get that latte stuff she likes . . .," he paused to hang his head and shake it ruefully, " . . . man, I thought he was gonna have a panic attack."

"I know. It's pretty pathetic."

"I think it's sweet." Grace had really suffered through the near break-up and was glad Jane and Lisbon were back together.

"Yeah. Sweet and pathetic." She frowned across the room at Cho.

"You know, sometimes you guys are real _idiots_." She shot at the two of them, and Rigsby snickered back at her.

"Maybe. But we're not pathetic."

"That's debatable." Grace muttered under her breath. A call came in for Lisbon, but it was nothing urgent. Van Pelt took a message and put it with two others under a paperweight on her desk.

"When are you gonna give her those?" Wayne asked her, eyeing the slips of paper.

"When she comes out and asks for them."

Rigsby was leaning back in his chair now, tossing a ball in the air over and over again, his eyes periodically flickering toward the boss's office. A minute passed in silence.

"Blinds have been closed for a while. Whaddya think they're doing in there?"

Cho laid his book on his desk with an aggravated sigh, but his voice was flat and emotionless as ever.

"You really want me to answer that?"

"No, I really don't. But you don't think they'd . . . you've seen how Jane is around her . . . but it's Lisbon, and they're at work . . . they wouldn't, right?"

He looked at Grace, relying on her sense of privacy and sensitivity when it came to the boss. She grinned and slid her eyes sideways at him.

"Probably going at it like spider monkeys."

Rigsby groaned and hauled himself out of the chair to leave the room, and Cho shot Van Pelt a dimpled smile and a nod like he was giving her a high-five. Wayne paused, realizing that going toward the elevator or the break room would take him past Lisbon's office. So, he turned around and headed toward the records room off the back of the bullpen, grabbing a bag of chips from his desk on the way. He'd just sit in there and bounce the ball off the wall for a while. Maybe by the time he came back the blinds would be open.

Wayne would have been relieved that—for the moment—the activity in Lisbon's office was really quite innocent.

Jane was lying on her couch, looking at her. While she liked the attention, for the first time in months, she couldn't tell what was going on in his head, and his just lying there staring at her was starting to unnerve her.

"Stop looking at me with . . . your eyes." She held her hand up as if to shield herself from his gaze.

"The better to see you with, my dear."

He rose from the couch, taking his tea cup with him, intending to head to the break room for a refill. Instead, he walked to her desk, set down the cup and pulled her up and straight into his arms. She pouted up at him.

"Figures. I'm finally in a fairy tale relationship, and I end up with the Big Bad Wolf."

He growled in her ear. "Yes, but you still get your happy ending."

"Is that an offer?"

He pulled back and looked at her. It was still something of a surprise to him when At-Work Lisbon said something so _suggestive_. He contemplated an answer. He wasn't at the doctor's office with her that morning. He hadn't forgotten the blatant flirting he had engaged in to get Lisbon released early from the hospital, and, frankly, the "doctor lady's" lingering looks made him a bit uncomfortable, especially under Lisbon's amused gaze. But he knew she had gotten good news. And it was making her . . . he didn't know what. She just had this _air_ about her. He'd been watching her all morning to see if she would give.

As he stared down at her lost in thought, she grew impatient for a response. She moved in his embrace in a slow wiggle that started at her shoulders and worked its way down to her knees. His brain instantly went white and empty.

She arched her eyebrow at him, and some semblance of cognitive thought returned to him. His fingers had clenched, digging into her skin through the shirt, which he now realized was made of very thin material. She wriggled against him again and smirked. He tightened his hold on her further, pulling her against him more snugly.

"Stop that so I can walk out of here with some dignity."

"Now, why would your dignity be important to me?"

"You treat me with absolutely no respect." He leaned down and covered her lips with his own, kissing her with a slow, building heat. He pulled back just long enough to ask, "Why are you so short?" as he lifted her onto her desk and stood between her knees.

One hand raised to the back of her head, and his kiss forced her to lean back into his palm. His fingers massaged deep into her scalp as his lips moved against hers, and his other hand came up to cup one breast, gently squeezing it in the same rhythm. _It's a good thing she thought to close the blinds when she walked in._

He drew back suddenly from the kiss, hands stilled in place and looked at her in a way she thought would have been described in a book as "aghast".

"Why you little minx."

"Took you long enough. You must be losing your touch."

One thumb moved in a brushing motion, and she gasped lightly.

"You think so, my dear?"

Now he _really_ sounded like the Big Bad Wolf. She inhaled then exhaled deep and slow and smiled up at him. His eyes narrowed at her.

"What's going on in that head of yours now?"

In answer, she raised her hand to the back of his neck and took a firm hold of his curls as she pulled him in for a kiss and slid herself toward him so she could hold him between her thighs. Her other hand slid around his waist under his jacket and downward to give his backside a firm squeeze as she murmured against his lips.

"The doctor cleared me for strenuous activity."

His hands clenched onto her again for an instant before heat engulfed him and his kiss and touch turned almost bruising. She was able and willing to give as good as she got, and when her lamp clattered to the floor, they realized she was lying fully flat on her desk top, his weight pinning her in place beneath him. She groaned and clutched at his jacket as he pulled away a few inches, still leaning over her.

"We can't do this here. I don't want the first time to be on your desk, of all places. I don't want to hurt you, and I know it would _kill_ me."

"Okay. Let me grab the keys to the SUV."

"Teresa."

"We could say we're checking something out. It wouldn't be an actual _lie_."

"Teresa."

"You sound like somebody's dad."

"You sound like a hormonal teenager."

"I think I could go with that."

"What is _wrong_ with you? Do you have no self-control whatsoever?"

She drew back and looked at him stunned. He suddenly had a very bad feeling. He didn't know why, but that must have been the wrong thing to say. He wasn't prepared for her reaction.

She laughed at him. Threw back her head and crowed. His hands slid to her upper arms, and he shook her.

"What are you laughing at? Get a hold of yourself, woman!" Now the best he could muster was mock seriousness, barely able to resist smiling at her.

Her eyes grew round and she pointed at him. She was outright whooping. He experienced a near overwhelming urge to turn her over his knee and spank her. But she would probably like it. Or kill him in his sleep.

Instead, he just flicked her on the nose and walked out in a huff, teacup and all.


	11. Chapter 11

11. ALL IN

They made a pretense of working the rest of the day. Well, Lisbon actually worked for real, but they were both eager for the day to end and just barely made it to the professionally acceptable cut-off time of five o'clock before they nonchalantly took their leave of the rest of the team, Lisbon claiming fatigue and Jane claiming that she needed him to help her home—"You know, with Will and everything."

They cooked together, revolving around and brushing against one another, sharing quiet laughter and talking about nothing in particular in low voices, the air of intimacy unbroken by Will's sweet, babbled attempts at joining the conversation.

After dinner, Teresa gave the baby his evening bath, and Jane "helped" her, mostly by standing behind her and massaging her neck and back and kissing everywhere his hands roamed over her. They spoke very little, each reveling in the touch and feel of the other. Bath over, she handed Will over to him so he could finish the nightly ritual of putting the little boy to bed while she took a shower. Once Jane had tucked Will in, he joined her.

Stepping in behind her, his arms circled her waist, and he marveled at how small she felt in his embrace. She had put her hair up to keep it dry, but shorter stray strands had formed spiraled curls that lay dark and soft against the fair skin of her neck, tempting him to nuzzle her, alternating slow kisses with gentle scraping bites that made her gasp as she leaned her head back against his shoulder. When she arched, her body moved forward away from his, and his hands slid firmly down the water-slickened skin of her abdomen to pull her back flush against him.

He kissed and nipped down the side of her neck, and when his hands smoothed down to her inner thighs, she moaned and leaned her full weight into him, stretching and recoiling, rubbing her back and hips against him. He moved one hand back up her body, fingers splayed across her stomach to hold her in place as the other reached for her body wash. He had noticed her fondness for the stuff, and it amused him that she kept no less than five different scents in the shower from which to choose—he guessed—according to her whim or mood. Popping open the cap of the newest bottle, he wondered where in the world a woman got peppermint-scented body wash. He would ask her later if he remembered. Bringing the bottle around to her front, he squirted some soap into his other hand then returned it to its place on the shelf. Still reaching around her, he rubbed his hands together and worked the soap into a lather, then began to wash her from her shoulders down in long, firm and purposeful strokes, pausing periodically to linger, massage or squeeze at her pleasure. She liked the slow, sensuous pace he had set, and he needed the control. They didn't speak, communicating only through touch, him searching out her desires and her rewarding him with a moan, a gasp, a shudder when he was successful at finding them.

She was enjoying his taking the lead, and when the shower ended, she saw no reason to not let him continue. Still without words, he stepped out and pulled her to him, holding her against him as he toweled off her back then moving away just enough to wrap the towel around to her front, massaging her through the thick, fluffy fabric. Then, he drew her, towel and all so she wouldn't get chilled, to the bedroom.

All evening he had been touching her, teasing her just a bit in a delicious foreplay that was a kind of love-making all its own, so that, by the time she laid down on the soft, pale gray-blue sheets, she was so sensitive to his touch that her body was humming.

When he drew back from her slightly, she realized there was a single candle burning in the room, on the dresser, a few feet from the bed—just enough to cast a warm glow over them. He pulled the towel away from her, looking at her body before he reached for her. Her eyes were closed for the most part, but she would open them at times to see him looking intently, his gaze following his touch as it moved over her as if he were studying, trying to memorize how her skin and curves and swells looked under his hands. That sight aroused her almost as much as his actual touch, and her eyes would fall closed again, weighted by the near ecstasy of it. _"Committing me to a room in your memory palace?"_ she wondered lazily, not wanting to speak, fearful of breaking the spell he had woven over her. She would ask him later . . . if she could remember.

She willingly, hungrily accepted everything he gave her and gave back in return, a push and pull of desire and pleasure. She wasn't surprised he was so good with his hands, driving her over the edge before she cradled him with her body and returned the favor. Even then, his hands didn't still, and when she thought she had nothing left, she shattered again at his coaxing, the first words he had spoken since before their shower.

He had always known that Lisbon wasn't like what he knew and assumed of other women. It _did_ surprise him, however, when she moved away from him to the other side of the bed. He had wanted to fall asleep holding her soft warmth against him and wondered if this was yet another intimacy issue through which they would need to work. She lay on her stomach, the comforter covering her only to just below the dip of the small of her back, the soft curve of her breast visible beneath her. He reached across the nearly arm's length of distance she had put between them to stroke her there, and she pulled away just the few inches necessary to take herself out of his reach. His face immediately registered concern, and she hastily explained.

"The way you touch me . . . I can't . . . " She took a deep breath in and then released it.

"Touching you, _feeling_ you, makes me want . . . It's not that I'm not satisfied—I am . . . _I am_." Another deep breath. "Just lying against you makes me want more. I need to calm down, and I can't if I'm near you."

It was a major confession on her part. He leaned across the distance between them and touched his lips to the side of her head.

"Other than the fact that I'm already missing you, I can't find anything to complain about in that."

She smiled at him, grateful for his understanding and easy acceptance. "Good night, Patrick."

He slid out of the bed, and she raised her head, frowning at him.

"Where are you going?"

Any worry he might have had that she didn't want to be close to him dissipated at the note of anxiousness in her voice.

"Just going to blow out the candle and get cleaned up a bit. I'll be right back."

Looking over her shoulder, she watched him walk around the bed to the dresser, pausing to pick up his shirt and jacket from the floor and drape them over the back of the chair she used as a catch-all. Her gaze swept over his body, silhouetted nude against the candle briefly before he bent to blow it out. Yearning for him stirred in her again. It was only their first time together, and she felt addicted. She wasn't used to having so little control. She closed her eyes and groaned into her pillow.

When he came back to bed, he could just make out her form by the faint bit of moonlight that glowed around the edge of her curtains. She was sleeping, her hair falling around her face and down her back in a tangled mess. He chuckled at how frustrated he knew she would be in the morning, trying to brush it out and get it under control. He wondered if she would let him talk her into putting it in two loose braids before she came to bed tomorrow night. _Pocahontas Lisbon._ He chuckled again and slid under the comforter then reached over to pull it over her as he lightly kissed her once more.

Settling back into his pillow, one hand beneath his head, elbow crooked out to the side, he smiled up at where he knew the ceiling was in the darkness, remembering how she had looked and felt and tasted. _Exquisite_. It was the only word he could think of that came close to describing her. When his breath hitched and a sweet warmth began to stir in him again, he willed himself to force the tantalizing images from his thoughts. He needed to get himself under control, and he needed sleep. He listened to the rhythm of her breathing and matched it with his own, feeling the peace of her nearness wash over him. Even in this relaxed state, complete control escaped him. Just before he drifted off to sleep, he reached over and took hold of the end of one strand of dark, soft, curling, tempting hair.

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He came awake slowly, pulled from sleep by the feeling of a slight pressure moving back and forth on his chest. As he drew nearer to consciousness, he could feel a pleasant warmth on his skin along his side, his arm and over his hip and thigh. Teresa was awake.

He judged by the faintest bit of daylight peeking around her curtains now that it was very early morning. He liked being able to tell time by her bedroom curtains. He was only momentarily distracted by that thought.

She was lying against him, one hand rubbing back and forth across his chest, the other arm supporting her weight as she hovered just over him, looking down at where she was touching him. One of her legs lay across his hip and down his thigh, curving to the inside of his leg, and it took great willpower not to move against her. Instead, he lay for a moment watching her.

Finally, he stilled the movements of her hand. Taking it in his and raising it to his lips, he kissed each fingertip lingeringly, his eyes looking into hers. She turned her hand in his grasp and, lifting his fingers to her lips, did the same. He rolled her to her back so he was leaning over her, their gazes still locked. He slid his free hand down her side, over her hip and behind her thigh, tugging at it to raise her knee, her foot braced flat on the mattress. His hand slid along the outside of her leg to her knee, holding it in place as his lips brushed the sensitive skin on the inside of it. Slowly, torturously, he kissed his way downward along the inside of her thigh. She closed her eyes, and her breath gathered in anticipation as he moved down the bed. Contrary to what he had said a few months earlier on the subject, the man had absolutely _nothing_ for which to apologize.

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They had drifted back to sleep with only a few hours left before they had to get ready for work. He awoke when he felt her roll away from him and get out of the bed.

"Where are you going?" He whispered after her, his voice still husky with sleep.

"T'start the coffee. And tea," she answered, leaning back across the bed to kiss him. He watched her walk around the bed and pause at the chair to take hold of his shirt. She felt something hard and angular beneath the fabric and when she picked it up, she realized what she had touched was in his jacket pocket. Instinctively, she started to reach in for it, curious as to what he was hiding. She must have thought better of it because she drew her hand back sharply and smoothed the pocket flap back into place. Slipping his shirt on, she buttoned it as she walked down the hall toward the kitchen.

He rose quickly and quietly from the bed and walked to where she had just stood. Reaching into the pocket, he removed a small cube-shaped box, took off its lid and shook its contents—another smaller box covered in velvet—out into his hand. He walked back to the bed and laid it on the nightstand then crawled back under the covers, waiting for Teresa to return and make him get up.

Five minutes later, she was back and trying to do just that. She leaned over him and tapped his chest.

"See, here's how it works. You get up and go to the office. The office doesn't come to you."

He reached up with one hand and took hold of the front of his shirt—which he thought looked only slightly better on her—and pulled her down to him as he lifted himself to meet her in a kiss, which she willingly returned. When he tried to deepen it, she pulled back. Taking a firm hold on both of her wrists he used her off-balanced weight and sudden tenseness against her, pulling her hard and fast, propelling her over him and into the bed on his other side. She yelped as her back hit the mattress. Before she could think, he had rolled onto and against her side, his leg draped across her hips, holding her in place beneath him. Still grasping her wrists, he raised them above her head, took them in one hand and proceeded to unbutton the shirt with the other. She didn't struggle against him, even when he leaned in to kiss her hard. He released her lips and trailed softer kisses along her jaw and down her neck.

"I wish you were this tenacious about your paperwork."

He chuckled into her neck, and the vibration did something to her.

"Don't bring up work. I makes me feel like I'm in bed with my boss."

"I would have thought that was at least a 2.3 on your kink-ometer."

"More like an even 3, but it would be a lot higher if I actually _took_ her in her office . . . a firm 7 at least. Higher if we leave the door unlocked, but with the blinds pulled . . . and if we were interrupted by . . . "

Was he actually imagining this scenario? Something gathered warm and tingling in her abdomen.

" . . . Rigsby."

The warm and tingly dispersed in a sparkle with her surprised laughter.

"That would just be cruel. I think we'd put him off eating for the next week."

He laughed, low and throaty, and the warm and tingly was back. He saw desire wash over her, and he groaned, burying his face in her hair on the pillow.

"We need to leave for work in two hours, and we have to get Will up and ready to go." He couldn't believe _he_ was being the voice of reason.

"It might save time if we shower together." She made it very difficult.

He shifted his head sideways and bit her neck then flicked it with the tip of his tongue, and she shivered against him.

"Where did you get peppermint body wash?"

"What?" She smiled, taken by surprise at the unexpected question, her wrists still held captive above her head. He had pulled the now partially unbuttoned shirt open and was running his nose across her chest, just atop the swell of her breasts, inhaling deeply as he went.

"You have peppermint body wash." He raised his head to look down at her. "Where does a woman go to get peppermint body wash?"

"This bath and body shop in Old Towne. It's just a little place—only one room."

She smiled up at him tauntingly.

"They have a new fragrance called 'Green Tea'."

His whole face lit in a grin, and she laughed at him, her eyes sparkling. She looked happy and beautiful. _Perfect_.

He had waited long enough and was done waiting. He released her right wrist and, keeping hold of her left, scooted off of her and to the side. Reaching for the little box he had laid on the bedside table and cupping his fingers around it, he popped it open, wiggled it contents out and dropped it on the floor. He turned back to look at her as he laid on his stomach and situated the weight of his upper body on his elbows. Taking a deep breath, he slid the ring on her third finger.

She drew her hand away from his and looked at the three perfect emerald-cut diamonds settled into a thin white-gold band encrusted with tinier versions of the same sparkling stones. She was quiet a long moment. She wasn't saying anything.

"Can I take your _not_ jumping out of the bed and pacing the room lost in one-sided discourse on all the reasons why this would be an absolutely terrible idea as a yes?"

"You don't think this is a little soon?"

"As far as I'm concerned, we've been in a monogamous relationship for the past several years. I'd say it's overdue."

He swallowed, and she realized he was nervous. She was suddenly overcome with a feeling of how dear he was to her. She never wanted to leave him and certainly never wanted him to leave her. The thought of waking up like this every day for the rest of her life—and going to sleep like she did last night—held considerable appeal. The thought of waking up without him couldn't even be considered.

She pulled him down and kissed him full on the mouth then bit his bottom lip gently before kissing her way to his ear.

"Will you still cook for me?"

"I'll do whatever you want if you keep this up."

"Good. As long as you remember your position in this relationship."

"I'll remember all of them. And be perfectly willing to learn a few new ones if you want."

They were trading soft kisses with one another now, and he had moved closer to her, leaning over her and holding her against him. Something occurred to him.

"Almost-wife mine?"

"Hm?" She really didn't want to be distracted by conversation.

"Earlier . . . why didn't you take this out of my pocket? I know you were curious."

She stopped what she was doing and drew back to look at him.

"It was a reflex—wanting to see what you were hiding. I remembered what my last bout of curiosity caused. And I do trust you, enough to let you have some secrets. It didn't feel right touching it just because I haven't gotten used to that yet.

"No more secrets. And I give you carte blanche to touch anything of mine anytime you want."

She decided to take him at his word and kissed him as she reached under the cover between them. He collapsed against her and groaned.

"We have to leave in a little over an hour." He wanted it on the record later that he had tried to warn her when she would be irritated over running late.

"Perfect," was all she said as she kissed him again. Their lips pulsed against each other in a slow rhythm. He reached between them and popped the last button open on his shirt.

They were forty minutes late to the office.


	12. Chapter 12

12. HAPPY IS AS HAPPY DOES

The wedding was set for six months later. They had decided it over dinner on the evening of the morning he had given her the ring six weeks previous. He didn't let it worry him that Lisbon didn't seem sentimental or particularly emotional about it. She was, after all, very practical. It wasn't that she wasn't romantic; she was more than happy to respond to his overtures in that regard—flowers, candlelight, lots of coffee—and he liked it that way. He offered romance, and she accepted. He didn't feel like he had to always be pursuing her. More like he always knew where she could be found.

Except today. She had left work for a bit and had not come directly back to her office upon her return. He knew she was back because her car was in the lot. He had walked the building in a show of nonchalance, checking other departments and their break rooms as if he was out for a stroll, hands in pockets, eyes wide as if to say, "Just looking around—don't mind me."

He had tried her cell a couple of times, and the calls had gone directly to voicemail. Knowing Lisbon knew the exact location of the fine line between endearing and clingy, he left no message. The elevator doors opened on their floor, and he was just about to text a non-committal "where r u?" when he caught a glimpse of her through her blinds, sitting at her desk staring down at the paper in front of her.

She looked tired. He knew she wasn't sleeping well—not deeply at any rate. He didn't feel like anything was actually upsetting or worrying her, but something was definitely on her mind. It still bothered him sometimes that she didn't talk to him, that there were still times when he had to seek her out. If she couldn't tell him what was wrong, how could he help her?

Thinking back over the morning, she had seemed pretty much her normal self. She was irritated in the usual way when they awakened with just enough time to hurriedly get ready and rush out the door (not that she let that happen very often). She had talked freely in the car, rolling her eyes at him and laughing at his jokes. But now she looked wilted, like whatever had been on her mind had become a bit heavier. He realized she had gone straight to her office when they arrived without heading first to the break room. There was no tall paper cup on her desk, so she hadn't stopped anywhere while she was out. He glanced at the large institutional clock that hung over the bullpen door. Ten o'clock and she hadn't had her morning coffee. _Well, at least there's something I can do about that_. He was back in fifteen minutes with a steaming latte.

She sat at her desk, elbows bent against the surface, her face resting on her upturned palms. A rustling noise moved between her door and where she sat before the familiar aroma wafted up to her. She opened her eyes to see a cup of her favorite from the shop around the corner sitting just under her nose.

"You looked like you could use a bit of a pick-me-up."

"I know. And it's only ten in the morning."

"Where did you go?"

"Something occurred to me, and I ran a short errand."

"So . . . what happened in the last sixty minutes to reduce you to hiding in your office with your face in your hands?"

Her sigh deepened into a groan, and she shuddered as she removed one hand from her face and moved the coffee as far from her as her arm would reach. She returned the hand to its original position and leaned more heavily into both palms.

"I peed on a stick."

Nothing. For several seconds. Then she heard him swallow.

"You . . . what?"

"Peed. On a stick. In the ladies' room. Twenty-five minutes ago. Can we move up the wedding date?"

"To when?"

"Somewhere between morning sickness and bump?"

He was quiet. She didn't know what she had expected, but it wasn't quiet. Maybe he just needed a prompt.

"So . . ."

"That would be about two months then?" He was back.

"Sounds right."

"At the house? In the garden?"

"That sounds good."

More silence. She looked up and he was gone. _Maybe he needs some time_. She saw him exiting the break room wiping his hands on a napkin, and her gaze dropped to the empty corner of her desk where she had set her coffee cup earlier.

"Did you dump my latte?"

"I didn't think you wanted it."

Tears came to her eyes. "You are so sweet."

He glanced over his shoulder and turned back to her pointing at his chest with a questioning look.

"I know it's probably just the nausea and hormones talking, but yes, you."

"Teresa?"

"Yes."

"Are we happy?"

She looked at him and said more seriously than she had ever said anything to him in the years she had known him.

"Yes."

"Could you say it?"

She stood and walked to him, embracing him as he opened his arms to her and held her close.

"I am pregnant with your child, and I could not possibly be any happier about it."

Even as he smiled down at her, something dark seemed to overtake him, filling his mind and pulling him away from her. It had been a long time since she had seen him retreat within himself in that way, but she recognized the signs.

"Patrick!" She said low and intensely, shaking him back to the present. He pulled a sharp intake of breath and looked down at her startled.

"You'll be fine. You have always been a good father, and I have every confidence in you. I _want_ to do this with you. I wouldn't trust anyone else."

He considered the veracity of what she said. He may not always be able to tell when she was lying anymore, but he could most definitely tell when she was telling the truth. For now he could borrow some of her confidence and make it his own. He would be more than fine.

"Can we tell people about us now?"

"The team already knows, and I called my brothers last week. I told Hightower that we were in a relationship yesterday."

"Oh, good. Then finding out _today_ that we're having a baby won't be such a shock for her."

"I'm not telling anybody today."

"You need to cut back on your work. And you don't want to endanger the two of you. It really baffles me that you feel this need to always run _toward_ gunfire."

"I'll order Rigsby to run toward the gunfire, and I know Grace has been dying to make a few tackles."

"You think if you start delegating they won't figure it out?"

"Grace probably knows. After I picked up the test, I stopped for a bear claw . . ."

She frowned to herself and mused aloud, "I could only eat half of it," as if it were the most confusing thing in the world. What he found confusing was that she thought what she'd just said made sense. Shaking herself back to the moment, she continued.

"I peed on the stick and threw up the bear claw. Grace happened to walk in about that time and held my hair for me."

"That was about thirty minutes ago now?"

She nodded.

He looked over her head and squinted.

"The guys have probably known for about twenty then."

She twisted to the side to peer around him through her blinds.

"Yeah. Cho's grinning at us and Rigsby's head is on his desk. Grace is on the phone—probably ordering the cake for my baby shower. Please don't let her drag me off to register this weekend."

"Don't worry, my sweet. I have your back."

"You can have any side of me you want. Hightower's in meetings for the rest of the day. Remember that thing about closing the blinds and leaving the door unlocked? I don't think you can count on Rigsby though. He'll probably never come in my office again."

He drew back and looked at her in surprise.

"Are you suggesting . . . that we . . . at work?"

"I have this sudden overwhelming urge to _harass_ you."

"You know that part of it isn't supposed to start for another couple of months, don't you?"

"Perfect. Just in time for the honeymoon."

"Remind me to pick up vitamins on the next grocery run."

"I got you some when I bought the stick. You want a couple?"

"I'm going to let go of you now and walk back to my couch. While I still can."

"You know, when you say things like that, it just makes it worse."

"For whom?" He hummed on the "m". She tucked her face into his neck.

"You're still holding me."

"I'm actually just holding you in place while I try to figure out how to protect myself."

"I can move my hands."

"I can feel that."

"If you hold still, I think I can make this work."

"Can you be serious a minute?"

"Seriously. I can do this."

"Teresa?"

"Patrick?"

"I mean it—be serious."

"It really does amaze me when you say things like that."

"Are you truly happy about this? It's not like you to take something this big so well."

She sighed when she realized he was determined to ruin the moment by not being easy. Her face still buried in his neck, she nuzzled him and sighed.

"Yes, I'm happy. And how can I be surprised? We're at each other all the time."

"This is true. But you're on the-"

"Antibiotics. I had just finished my last round the first time we . . ." She rolled her hand behind his back in a circular motion.

"First time, huh?"

"You're grinning, aren't you?"

"I'm not."

"I can hear it in your voice. You're very pleased with yourself."

"Well, even you have to admit, that's pretty impressive."

They stood in a silent embrace for a moment.

"So, how about if we _lock_ the door?"

"Teresa—"

She stepped away, taking his hand and pulling him to the couch.

"Teresa, I really don't think—"

She cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"In a few minutes, I'm going to call my gynecol—my o-b-g-y-n and make an appointment. Tonight over dinner, we'll talk about whether we want to know the sex. Then we'll have some. This weekend you'll let me drag you to a little shop where they sell cute but sensible maternity clothes. Next week, we'll go to the County Clerk's office to apply for a marriage license. The following weekend, I'll let Grace drag me to a bridal shop, florist and caterer—" She put her fingertips over his lips to silence him when he moved to speak, "—to plan a very small wedding to which we'll invite my brothers and their families, our close friends and their dates, anyone you want to invite . . . and Hightower . . . I guess."

"You know, she really does like you."

"I know. I just need time to get used to it. Oh, and I want to invite Liz, too. If that's all right with you."

"Of course, I want her there."

Jane thought back to what he knew of Lisbon's secret relative—her mother's younger sister. An "independent specialist" with a "specific skill set" as Lisbon had described her to him all those months ago, she had helped Lisbon hunt down and kill Red John and his associates. The woman was fiercely, almost murderously protective of Teresa.

"She won't want to kill me because I knocked you up, will she?"

"I won't tell her right away although I'm sure she'll guess. Besides, she probably knows that's not the worst thing you could've done."

He smiled down at her, and another completely unrelated thought crossed his mind.

"I just realized—what will I call you? Teresa is okay for home, but you won't want that here."

"I always answer to 'Boss'."

"Yet remarkably, I never call you that."

"Lisbon will be fine."

"You're not changing your name?" He looked a little disappointed but recovered quickly. "Of course, that's up to you—whatever you want."

"I didn't realize you were so conventional and bourgeoisie on the issue," she mocked, repeating back at him something he had taunted her with years ago. Seeing his sheepish smile, her tone softened.

"How about Lisbon-Jane.? You can introduce me everywhere as 'Mrs. Jane', but I'll still be Lisbon here to avoid confusion. Okay?"

That sounded like a good compromise. He could always count on her for that. After all, thanks to him, she had learned the art the hard way.

She grew quiet and her eyes seemed to focus on something just over his shoulder. He knew she wasn't really looking at anything, and he watched her get lost in her thoughts. She tilted her head and chewed on her bottom lip, the corners of her eyes slowly crinkling into smile lines. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose.

"What's going on in your head?"

"I just realized which room I want to make into a nursery."

"I love you." The words rushed out of him, emptying his lungs of breath.

She smirked at him. "I know."

"I tell you I love you, and it obviously takes my breath away, and I get borderline snark? Just moments after you try to violate me and seconds after you plan for the nursery? This will be a long pregnancy if you're already so mercurial."

"You'll need to go with the flow."

"Will I need a life preserver?"

She grinned and leaned forward to kiss the tip of his nose.

"That's what _I'm_ here for. Now if you're not going to give it up, make yourself useful and go find me some crackers. And ginger ale."

"You're the boss."

"You finally get it."

"Teresa?" She heard the note of uncertainty in his voice.

"Patrick. I'm happy. This is me happy. I never really thought I would be. I thought I would have my job and my team and my undecorated apartment and play aunt to children that weren't mine. I can't believe that I have a wonderful home and a beautiful son who would have been more than enough, but I'm going to have a baby with undeniably the most handsome, most irresistible male I have ever encountered. And he loves me and wants to marry me and make me his for the rest of our lives. And there will be cake. I. Am. Happy. You have made me happy. And you just need to accept that."

He stood up and smoothly walked to where the cord for the first set of blinds hung. Three pairs of eyes were watching him, and he looked back at them pointedly before snapping the blinds shut. He walked around the room doing the same to each set before turning the lock on the door.

"You said Madeleine's in meetings the rest of the day?"

She caught the glint in his eye and nodded silently at him with a hint of challenge in hers.

"Where did you say those vitamins are?"

Her laugh pealed out, light and silvery. The three pairs of eyes in the bullpen lifted back toward the closed blinds. Grace and Cho turned back to their computer and book respectively. Rigsby pushed his burger away, and dropped his head back to his desk with a groan.


	13. Chapter 13

13. A WAY OF STIRRING UP

It was a beautiful day for a wedding. Jane was having a good time. Even though he knew most of the guests and was around them on an almost daily basis, he had never had the opportunity to observe them in a purely social setting where they were a little more exposed to him, unable to hide behind the armor their work provided.

Grace wasn't so much of a surprise. She was fluttering around the garden, arranging things here and adjusting things there, making sure everything was perfect. Periodically, she would go into the house to check on Lisbon, careful not to neglect her duties as maid of honor.

Rigsby watched her, his eyes roaming over her with a longing that couldn't seem to be quenched by time or regulations. Grace hadn't brought a date, and apparently he was taking it as a reason to hope. Every time she went back into the house, his eyes would flicker to the door— evidence that he wasn't paying complete attention to the conversation in which he was engaged—in anticipation of her reemergence.

Hightower watched all of this with a frown. She had come with her semi-estranged husband and their two children. He was a tall, lean, bookishly handsome man. It was apparent that the strain between them was mainly on Hightower's part. He obviously adored her. Standing just close enough to barely not be touching her, he leaned to her and whispered something in her ear. Her look of consternation at Rigsby's ill-disguised lovesickness turned into one of resignation. She looked down and closed her eyes, and her long slender fingers fluttered across her forehead. Then, she lifted her head and looked away from her husband even as her hand reached sideways for his, seeming to know exactly where she would find it. She loved him, but she didn't want to forfeit her ambitions. She wanted her work, but she wanted him, too, and didn't know just how to balance the two. As for the husband, he obviously wasn't prepared to give her up. Jane felt a swell of sympathy for him.

Teresa's brothers had all been able to come as well. Andrew and his wife had two small children, a boy and a girl. The boy sat next to his mother, leaning sedately against her, his wide hazel eyes taking in everything around him. His sister, however, was everywhere at once, her energy taking its toll on her beleaguered father. Her hair flew out behind her in long dark curls, and she would look back at her daddy with bright jade green eyes, laughing at him, daring him to try and catch her. Jane was sure she was a picture of what Lisbon must have been like as a child. They didn't know the sex of their baby yet. Jane had been apprehensive to even contemplate it, but watching the little girl—all spark and laughter—he thought he wouldn't mind a miniature Teresa. John and his wife were there, newlyweds themselves, and Lisbon's youngest brother, Tommy, was there with his girlfriend. Teresa had asked Jane if it was all right to have one song in the ceremony, and she had asked Tommy to play and Caroline to sing. It really hadn't mattered to him—he wanted the day to be what she wanted. He only wanted to be married to her by the end of it.

Liz Tierney, Teresa's aunt, was there as well. He had watched her with Minelli, the two old friends—or colleagues—in close conversation. Whatever she said to him before she walked away left the older man slack-jawed before shaking his head and turning back to his Scotch. Now she was quietly railing at Cho. They gave every indication of being involved in quiet conversation, only the intensity of Liz's gaze and Cho's refusal to look up from the ground belying their calm. They had worked together to protect Teresa from the threat of Red John before the serial killer's death, and Jane suspected that Cho knew the truth of what she and Lisbon had done. He was sure Liz had found out about Whelan and was ripping Cho a good one over his arresting the man who had attempted to murder her niece instead of finishing him off. Or calling her so she could take care of it.

It was certainly an interesting wedding. Just a year ago, he would not have believed he would find himself in this situation—in love with Lisbon, getting married again and surrounded by such friends, a son and another child on the way. His musing was ended by Grace coming out the doors again, and Jane realized that he was just as intent on watching for her as Rigsby, but for different reasons.

He knew Teresa loved him—knew she meant it when she said she would marry him and was happy to be having a child with him. But she was skittish, and her pregnancy-induced hormone upheavals weren't helping. She had threatened to call off the wedding twice now; once when Grace's pushing on the wedding planning got to be too much and once when she couldn't find shoes to match her dress. Any little thing could set her off. She hadn't been in a very good mood when they parted yesterday. Ever sensitive and helpful, Grace gave him an encouraging little smile to assure him everything was all right inside the house. She wanted this wedding to go off without a hitch almost as badly as he did.

"Well, Patrick, ready for the happy day?" There was no mistaking that soft Irish brogue. He turned to Liz Tierney with a slow grin. He was struck again by the similarities she shared with Teresa—same stature, same curling hair but with hazel eyes and hair a shade or two lighter.

"Liz. Lovely to see you."

She turned her face and tilted her head, and he leaned down to give her a kiss on the offered cheek. He was just wary enough to wonder if her gesture had been one of affection or simply the cobra's way of hypnotizing its prey before the strike. She wore a plum-colored dress that fit her frame like a glove. His eyes wandered over her with a benign curiosity wondering where she might be able to conceal a weapon.

"You don't want to know." He had missed Liz. "I thought someone besides Cho should show up armed. Tess isn't going to be carrying _anything else_ under her gown."

Cobra it is. His eyes met hers, and he gave her a genuine grin. He decided to ignore her implication, and she carried on the conversation.

"So, how has the year worked out for you? Apart from the obvious, I mean."

When she had made him promise to stay with the CBI for a year after Red John's death, she had told him the team was good for him, that they were re-teaching him how to live.

"Oh, I think I've made pretty good progress . . . 'apart from the obvious'. Maybe you'd get a more accurate assessment of that from Teresa."

She looked him up and down appraisingly.

"Well, blinded by love . . . and all the _little extras_, she may not be completely impartial on the subject."

Liz knew about the baby, and she wasn't going to let it go. He gave a resigned sigh.

"What gave it away?"

"Maybe it was the curious combination of that lovely glow and the intermittent nausea. Or maybe it was the pre-natal vitamins I found under the kitchen sink.

"You looked under the kitchen sink?"

"Only one of many places she might hide something like that from me. Besides, she's heaved her cookies three times this morning, and while I understand any misgivings she may have about today, even _she_ wouldn't be _that_ nervous."

"You really like me, don't you?" He said it with smug certainty.

She fought a smile then gave in only a little, the right side of her mouth rising in a half-smirk as one eyebrow arched at him. He saw again the resemblance between her and Teresa, and he was struck with a sense of longing. He hadn't so much as laid eyes on her in nearly twenty-four hours—the longest he had been apart from her since they had reconciled. His eyes went back to the house.

"Don't worry, love. She's determined to go through with it. She's as far gone as any bride I've ever seen. Almost as far gone as you."

She gave him a pat on the arm and walked away. Feeling calmed by her assurances, Jane walked to where Tommy Lisbon had pulled a chair off to the side and sat quietly tuning his guitar.

"How long have you been playing?"

"Since I was little. Teresa taught me."

Jane's interest was piqued. She never told him she played the guitar. He didn't want to give away too much about what he didn't know. The Lisbons had all proven to be pretty tight-lipped, which was no surprise to him. He knew a direct assault wasn't the most likely way to get any answers.

"Was she a good teacher?"

"Yeah. She taught herself and then tried to teach the three of us. I'm the only one that stuck with it."

A couple of years ago, they had worked a murder investigation involving a high-school reunion. He was nearly positive that Lisbon played in her high school band but was completely stumped as to which instrument. He had repeatedly attempted to guess, still did on occasion, but had never been able to guess right.

"Probably a natural result of playing an instrument at school."

"Yeah, she loved playing violin, but when dad got bad off, she had to drop it. At least she was able to keep her instrument. Does she still have it?"

Ah, not band then. Orchestra.

"Oh, you know Teresa. Can't bring herself to get rid of anything."

Tommy only nodded and went back to tuning. Caroline approached, and Jane stepped back so she could take her place beside him. He knew the music would be the sign to start. _Finally_. He just wanted to get married and eat.

Tommy began to play, and Jane was surprised at how good he was. Then Caroline began to sing, her voice both husky and sweet, Tommy's guitar playing a perfect harmonic counterpart to her coffee-house alto. Everyone moved to their places—guests to their chairs, he and Cho to one side of the officiant and Grace to the other. Jane listened to the words and smiled. He knew why Teresa had chosen this song.

_You're different from the way I thought you'd be  
But here you are - In front of me  
So full of light I watch it overflow  
A lovely mystery _

_And I am lost for words  
You're more than I deserve _

_You have a way of stirring up my soul  
Did you know  
When you hold me in your arms the way you do  
It feels like coming home _

_And I am lost for words  
You're more than I deserve  
And when I cannot stand  
You are where I land _

_And when the years have stolen youth away  
I will stay  
You will be the keeper of my heart  
Until my final day_

_And I am lost for words  
You're more than I deserve  
And when I cannot stand  
You are where I land_

As the song played, Andrew and Teresa walked out of the house, and Jane's breath was stolen away. He had been willing to go through all of this because he wanted her to have a real wedding—nothing over the top but to be a real bride on a real wedding day. Now he realized he wouldn't have missed it for the world.

He hadn't been allowed to see her dress . . . or her shoes or her jewelry or anything else for that matter. The only thing about her appearance he had any foreknowledge of was her bouquet, and only because he had selected it for her and had it delivered that morning. It was a mix of white roses, hydrangea and freesia, entwined with honeysuckle. He had chosen the combination because it reminded him of her: traditional but surprising, conventional yet unbound, the whites in all their shades of purity.

She was uncommonly beautiful as she walked, strong and confident, at her brother's side. Her long hair was caught up on either side and pulled to the back, falling in a loose cascade of curls and waves. Her dress was of creamy white silk and organza with a square neckline that perfectly framed her cross necklace. The empire waist cinched just below her breasts and floated over her hips, falling softly to the ground where the short train brushed along the grass behind her as she walked to him. He couldn't resist reaching out to her, and she withdrew her hand from Andrew's arm and placed it his. As the song ended they turned to face the officiant, looking out over Lisbon's favorite view of the Sacramento River.

It didn't escape his notice that she hadn't looked him in the eye once.

As the ceremony started and the officiant began to speak on the merits of marriage, he whispered sideways to her.

"The song was lovely. Short and sweet—my favorite combination."

He knew she was miffed and thought he probably knew why. He had hoped a little light flirting would elicit a smile, but Teresa wasn't cooperating. She whispered sideways back at him.

"Could you be serious for just fifteen minutes while we're getting married?" He had initially meant to try to smooth things over, but he couldn't help what he said next.

"Fifteen minutes!" He sounded scandalized. "Did Grace help plan the ceremony?"

"Fifteen minutes. I have fifteen minutes to change my mind."

"No need for threats, dear. I'll be good."

"You'd better." Her face suddenly went pale, and she leaned against him. The officiant, blissfully ignorant of their exchange, continued.

"I guess we didn't make the post-nausea, pre-bump cut off, huh?" He said sympathetically. He knew one of the reasons she had chosen the Austen-styled dress was because Baby Jane had made an early appearance.

"The doctor said it was to be expected in cases like this."

The officiant was asking who gave this woman. Lisbon waggled the fingers of one hand at him and whispered, "You can just skip that part."

He nodded his understanding and continued, now trying to ignore their ongoing conversation. Most couples paid better attention when he was marrying them.

"What do you mean 'cases like this'?"

"Multiple births." She didn't even flinch.

It took a moment for what she said to sink in. When it did, his vision blurred, and he stretched and widened his eyes trying to make it clear up. When everything came back into focus, he realized Grace had gasped into her bouquet, Cho was making repeated attempts to clear his throat, and the officiant was obviously in shock. Teresa smiled sweetly at the man, encouraging him to continue, which he did, speaking at twice his previous speed.

"How many multiples are we talking?" His voice came out in a slightly higher pitch.

"Just the two." The officiant asked her a question to which she responded, "I will."

"And when did you find this out?"

"At the ultrasound yesterday."

After throwing an exasperated "I will" at the non-plussed officiant's query, Jane turned to face Lisbon directly, still trying to keep his voice down but unable to maintain a whisper.

"You had an ultrasound and didn't tell me? Didn't you think I might want to be there? . . . Wait . . . Is this about the other day?"

"What about the other day?"

"Guys!" Grace was trying to bring them back to the matter at hand. "_Guys_!"

"I made a simple comment—" Cho handed him Lisbon's ring, and he slid it on her finger.

"You said I was fat." She slid his ring onto his hand. The officiant wasn't even talking anymore.

"I said you were filling out. It was a compliment." Now his voice was calm. So very calm. She wanted to hit him with her flowers.

"On what planet would any woman consider that a compliment?" She was turned directly to him now, her whisper nearly the volume of normal conversation. The guests who had been murmuring behind them grew quiet now that they could hear what was actually being said. The officiant leaned in to listen as well.

"I was trying not to be crass." He looked pointedly at her breasts.

Realizing what he meant, she blushed a deep crimson. So did Cho.

Jane realized the ceremony had come to a halt. He turned to the officiant, heaved a plaintive sigh and whined, "Will you just marry us already?"

The pronouncement was made, and the ceremony ended with thunderous applause. It lasted just under seven minutes.


	14. Chapter 14

14. MORE THAN I DESERVE

Seventeen doctor's visits, five ultrasounds, ninety-eight foot massages, one angrily thrown stapler and broken office window later, just as October and the relief of slightly cooler temperatures took hold of Sacramento, Riley Elizabeth and Emily Rose Jane arrived.

It had been a real learning experience. When Lisbon said something sounded good to eat, it meant that he was supposed to retrieve it. When she was upset or angry, the last thing she wanted was for him to be calm and reasonable. Just because she wanted to take up the entire bed didn't mean she wanted him to leave it, and telling him to shut the hell up was never, _ever_ a suggestion.

Sometimes he wondered if he would survive this pregnancy.

But then she would be so grateful when he did anything for her, or she would burst into laughter after ranting about something for twenty minutes when she realized he was ranting along with her, or she would lean over in the car and kiss him on the cheek when he had managed to keep quiet just for the five minutes she needed him to, and he understood how very good his life was.

Their lives had merged more smoothly than he would have dreamed. They shared work and friends, something that came easy enough after years of practice. He now had three brothers and three sisters (Tommy had finally taken the plunge with Caroline, and they had eloped.), a niece and nephew, an aunt, a son and baby girls on the way. He was so used to being alone and living so unconventionally that this newfound family and proximity to other human beings should have been more difficult to get used to. But he had found it very easy to acclimate—especially when it came to living with Teresa and Will.

He had wondered—and maybe worried over a little—how Teresa's brothers would react to him, but Andrew was like Lisbon and had apparently decided to take him as he was found. Surprisingly, John was rather like Jane, and while distance would not allow them to become close—something for which Teresa was secretly grateful—when they were together, there was an instant synchronization of humor and mischief. Tommy was much more relaxed, and Jane felt like the youngest brother could take him or leave him. Liz visited sporadically and never for long, always welcomed upon arrival and always missed upon departure, spoiling Will almost beyond repair. He couldn't imagine what it would be like when she got her hands on the baby girls.

He even had a pseudo father-in-law in Minelli, whom they saw from time to time over dinner. Her former boss always watched Teresa and looked Jane up and down shrewdly as if he were measuring something by sight. Minelli was happy for Teresa's happiness, but when they said good night there was always a hint of warning in his eye and handshake. Jane had known he was protective of her professionally and personally, but until they were married, he had no idea of the extent of the latter.

It wasn't so much a blending, he supposed, as a belonging. He belonged in this place and with these people. He hadn't belonged anywhere in a long time, if ever, and he felt it nowhere so much as at home, where there was substantial evidence that he was a fixture there. Teresa had insisted they purchase a couch that was almost an exact replica of his resting place at work. His clothes took up the previously unoccupied one third of her closet. Finding him drawer space had been more difficult—she did like her T-shirts and lingerie. But a small bachelor's chest had taken care of that. The team had gone in together on their wedding gift—a set of beautiful bone china cups and saucers that were housed in a kitchen cabinet just above where his tea caddy sat on the counter. A picture of Charlotte joined one of Will on the mantel, and in the large grouping of family photos that lined the hallway and included Teresa's parents and brothers, she had made room for a picture of Angela holding Charlotte on her lap at the piano.

Yes. Life was very good.

The plan had been for Lisbon to work to the seven-and-a-half month mark then start her maternity leave. Two weeks later, she would deliver by C-section, and Jane's family leave would begin. But three days before the planned delivery, Jane had been awakened in the night with a sharp pain to his chest. He slept shirtless, so when Teresa had taken hold of him, all she got was skin . . . and nipple.

"Wake up. We need to go _now_."

She called the doctor, and they were in the car in six minutes. It was the first time she didn't complain about his driving, making phone calls to the team and Andrew along the way. She had been rushed upstairs and directly into a maternity ward operating room.

Riley was extricated first, but just before Emily was delivered, the placenta broke loose, causing immediate severe blood loss to Teresa. The babies were whisked away to neo-natal ICU and Jane was shoved unceremoniously out of the room. He stood just outside the doors, unable to connect mentally with what was happening. Grace had stood next to him and wrapped her arm around his waist and guided him into a pattern of pacing, knowing it would be futile to try and get him to sit down. Within seconds, he was pacing on his own, his mind refusing to think on anything but how glad he would be to see her and how soon he would be able to hold his daughters. Forty-seven minutes later, the doctor came through the double doors, beaming at him and congratulating him on his good fortune. Teresa would be in recovery for an hour, and he could see her when they moved her to her room. Jane wondered how long it would take for _him_ to recover.

Then a nurse from the ICU approached and asked him if he would like to see his girls, and everything fell back into place. He held them gingerly—they were so very small—and Grace took pictures of them through the window. When he was finally able to see Teresa, he held her the same way—she looked so very small, too.

Teresa was released ten days later—some minor complications having slowed her recovery—and the twins two weeks after that. Now, two months after their arrival, the Christmas season was in full swing, and it was almost time for them to go back to work. Jane groaned every time he thought about it. Of course, they had never really been work-free. At first, Teresa called Cho throughout the day until he told her _he_ would call _her_ every day, first thing in the morning and then in the early evening to keep her abreast of things. Jane often consulted by phone and, a few times, met the team at crime scenes and took part in interviews, careful not to be away from home for too long.

He knew that while Teresa had been glad to have the time off as a family, she was looking forward to being back at work. They were both glad for the on-sight daycare—he had already been warned as to his limit of daytime visits. Will was a favorite there, and the ladies were eager to see the Jane girls.

The babies were bottle-fed (Teresa's response to the pediatrician's inquiry about breast feeding had been met with an arched eyebrow and an expression she generally reserved only for Jane.), so they could take turns with night-time feedings, though they usually got up together anyway. One night after a particularly long day with three inexplicably fussy children, Teresa suddenly awakened to find herself in bed alone. A dim light shone in the hallway, emanating from the living room. She got out of bed and wrapped her robe around her and softly padded down the hall.

The Christmas tree lights were on, and there were two empty baby bottles sitting on the coffee table. Jane sat nestled deep into the center of the leather couch holding Emily against his chest, her face snuggled into his neck. Riley lay tucked up against him on one side wrapped tightly in her blanket, and a disheveled Will lay curled into a ball on his other. Patrick's eyes were closed, and he was sleepily crooning "White Christmas" in a very bad imitation of Bing Crosby. Some of the words were mixed up, and where he didn't know them at all, he just hummed. She remembered how excited he had been to set up the tree, waiting for her instructions at every step. He had hunted on the internet for days for what he thought would be the perfect eggnog recipe. Grace had picked him up for work one day, and Teresa had meant to ask him about the conspiratorial air between the two of them only to be sidetracked by a hungry Riley. Later, when she found the hidden shopping bags, she realized he had asked Grace to come shopping with him. Hearing this garbled rendition of a familiar carol, she wondered—not for the first time—if he, personally, had ever actually celebrated Christmas.

She walked to the back of the couch where it stood away from the wall and, standing behind him, ran her fingers up through the back of his hair, palming his head in her hand. He leaned back into her, eyes still closed, still humming, and she bent and kissed him softly and lingeringly on the corner of his lips. His hum drew out into a long sigh of appreciation.

"Looks like you've had your hands full."

"Yes," he breathed out on another sigh of contentment.

"Is this your first Christmas?"

He opened his eyes and looked at her upside-down. Her question was straightforward and held no pity or accusation, so he didn't feel the need to hedge. He was rather past that now anyway.

"First one that counts."

"Mm," was all she said as she rounded the couch to Will's side. Lifting his little body just a bit, she sat leaning into Patrick's arm and slid the boy sideways into her lap, lifting him against her. He snuggled into her chest, twining his fingers into her long hair, and began to suck his thumb. She rubbed his back, and he settled into place.

"I think he likes it there. Can't blame him. It's one of my favorite places."

"Are there any quintessential Christmas experiences you'd like to try?" she asked, returning to their previous conversation.

"Is it too late to get stockings with our names on them?"

She glanced toward the pile of Christmas catalogs they'd gotten that week.

"I'd say that's very do-able."

"Mm," he mimicked her earlier response, but he had turned to her now, his eyes locked on hers. She recognized that look.

"Aren't you tired?"

"What?"

"Don't act innocent with me, Patrick Jane. I know what you're thinking."

"No you don't."

"Yes, I do. I can always tell what you're thinking."

"So tell me, O psychic one."

"Don't call me that. I know how you feel about that stuff. And it's the same thing you always think when you see me hold Will like this. Honestly, don't you think it's a bit pervy and pathetic to be envious of a baby?"

"I'm not envious. He likes the way you feel and smell, and he loves your hair, and being close to you comforts him. I feel that way, too, but that doesn't make me envious. Seeing the way you are together is part of what makes you beautiful, and I can't help but appreciate it. Anyway, I was already thinking about that before you came in."

"Oh, _really_?" she laughed, not quite believing him.

"Yes, really. Why do you think I couldn't remember the words to the song? My thoughts were full of you."

"You couldn't remember the words because you don't know the words."

"Be that as it may, I _was_ thinking about it, but you were exhausted and out like a light. I had talked myself into just going back to bed and letting you sleep when you came in and kissed me."

"And you threw all thoughts of restraint to the wind?"

"No. _That_ happened when you said 'do-able'. I find you very much so."

Something in her gaze shifted, and he grinned and closed his eyes as he laid his head back on the couch. Turn about was more than fair play.

"I know that look, too, my love."

She decided not to be coy.

"You put Em to bed then come back for Will, and I'll tuck Riley in and meet you back here."

He lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes wide.

"You want to . . . ?"

"Move. Now. The offer's only available for a limited time."

He moved without any more hesitation. By the time he was back, she had lit a fire and was lying on the couch, minus her robe and flannel pants. He stood at the back of the couch looking down at her.

"You don't mess around, do you?"

"Not nearly as much as I'd like to."

"You just saw the doctor today. You sure it's all right to—?"

"Are you just gonna stand there and talk, or are you gonna 'do'?"

"Sex makes you pushy."

"If that's the way you want it. Now, do I need to start without you?"

He rounded the couch and sat next to her, tapping her leg so she would move over to make room for him. He sat for a while looking down at her and stroking slowly up and down her legs before wrapping his hands around the outside of her thighs and inching his fingers up to slide them under the ribbon-wide elastic on the sides of her panties. He stilled his movements, holding his hands in place there as he leaned over her.

"You know, you look really good."

"Thanks." She stroked his chest and arms, not wanting to be distracted by conversation. He slid his hands up her sides and under her shoulders as he came to rest over her, his forearms bearing most of his weight, his knees on the outside of her thighs. She raised her head to pepper kisses along his jaw and down his neck.

"I mean you've gotten back into shape really fast."

"Tell me about it. I've been kegeling like crazy," she gasped out between kisses.

"That's really not so hot as you might think."

"Talk to me again in fifteen minutes."

"Just fifteen? I think I'm insulted."

"Pre-game," she answered just before she tongued him and swept her hands around his waist and down over his backside.

He groaned and ground into her then reached down to twist his fingers in the thin elastic bands again and started to move down her body as he pulled them with him. She didn't let him get far, using her feet to finish pushing them off as she slid her fingers under the elastic band of his boxers and pulled. Together, they made short work of them. He snuggled himself against her, and she groaned and reached between them.

"Your shirt."

"What?" she sounded exasperated now, unable to understand him.

"Let me take off your shirt." He pulled the tank top off over her head, her lips coming back to his and hand descending again as the garment peeled away from her. Positioning him, she raised her hips to meet his, surrounding him, already beginning to pulse. He moved against her hard, quickly increasing his pace. He felt her squeeze around him in a rhythm that matched his, speeding up as he did until the squeezing took and held. His breathing stopped, unable to push past the wave of desire that engulfed him, and he groaned deeply into her mouth as she growled into and ground her lips against his, both of them going over at the same time.

He lay on top of her, unable to support himself even partially, trying to catch his breath. Of course, he didn't let that keep him from talking.

"This really is a great couch."

"Yeah, that French provincial thing Liz bought would never hold up."

"Are you back on the pill? I didn't ask before—didn't want to kill the mood."

"Yes, I am, and it wouldn't have mattered."

They lay together silently for a moment, his hips and legs still cradled in hers as he pulled his weight a little to the side so as not to lie too heavily on her. She raised one hand and swept her bangs back and over the top of her head.

"I've been wanting to do that for _weeks_."

"Since when? It's only been a little over two months."

"Since the hospital."

"You mean when you almost _died_?"

"It was the only thing I could think of for my bucket list. It didn't help when I woke up the night before I came home and you were in bed with me, feeling me up in your sleep."

"What made you think I was sleeping?"

"Your eyes were closed."

"I know where everything is," he responded matter-of-factly with a one-shoulder shrug. One hand was slowly massaging her breast now, and she softly arched against his palm in an answering rhythm. He bent his head to kiss her neck, his lips moving against her.

"Mm. Yes, you do." She closed her eyes and smiled, enjoying the feel of his hands and mouth on her.

He turned his head and kissed across her neck and down to the swell of her breast above his fingertips then up to her lips as he moved himself back to center over her. Her mouth opened to him, and his tongue swirled around the inside of her lips and along the edge of her top teeth before stroking deep along her tongue. She whimpered as her hands tightened on his upper arms.

The pace of their bodies pushing, arching and kissing all came together like some kind of deep instinctive rhythm as their hips began to rock against each other. He felt himself harden again and slipped back into her, her moans and pleading bringing him back to an unrestrainable urging. He drew out then pushed in again, driving a breathy grunt from her body. She clenched around him again, and he drove into her over and over, nearly withdrawing each time, sliding his full length back and forth within her. Her body tried to arch hard against him, but his driving weight pinned her in place as her muscles spasmed around him and he felt the warmth roll down her arms and legs. The sensations caused him to drive harder and deeper, breathing out her name. A low rumble started in his chest and erupted into a loud growl as his pace quickened. He felt her tightening around him again, and he pushed on, slamming into her once more with a deep, wordless cry as she went limp under him again with another groan, high-pitched and drawn out, that came from somewhere deep within her.

He stilled for only an instant then began to move in her again, slow and gentle as she whimpered beneath him. Then he withdrew, moving his legs to the outside of hers, arms encircling her waist between her back and the couch cushion as he nuzzled her neck, embracing her with his entire body.

"That . . . was _great_." He kissed her shoulder in thanks for the compliment.

"I'll bet you'll never make fun of me for reading 'Cosmo' in the check-out again."

She was silent for a moment, and then he began to feel her body shaking beneath him. He smiled and kissed her shoulder again, chuckling at her silent laughter.

"You are so twisted." He could tell by the sound of her voice she had tears in her eyes.

"You read that article, too?" He pulled back and looked down at her in mock seriousness.

She slapped his arm but didn't pull her hand away. Instead, she slid it upwards and into the curls at the back of his neck, smiling into his eyes.

"I really do love you, Patrick."

"I really do love you, too, sweetheart."

She looked away, and her eyes followed the tracings of her fingertips on his upper arm as her brow furrowed.

"I know it's been rough, and I haven't been the easiest to get along with, but it hasn't been too bad, has it? I mean, we're doing all right. Right?"

"Except for the fact that I have no feeling in my legs, I think we're doing exceptionally well."

She smiled at him, but he could still see the uncertainty in her eyes. She wasn't unsure about him anymore. This was about her. His gaze turned serious.

"Teresa, there have been some rough times, but for the most part—for the biggest, vastest most part—my life with you has been wonderful. _Is_ wonderful. I wouldn't trade it for anything."

Her smile reached her eyes.

"You're just saying that because you're lying on me naked."

"That has a lot to do with it, yes."

She smacked his face, but it was very half-hearted.

"Do you think your legs will work now?"

"Why? Do we want to get up?"

"Yes, we do. And we want to sleep in our bed until the babies are up again. Or until you are, whichever comes first."

"Bed, it is."

He lifted himself off of her, then took her hands and pulled her up, embracing her before they collected their clothes and headed down the hallway. She walked into their bedroom, and he followed after, pushing the door nearly closed behind him. Together, they collapsed on the bed in a tangled embrace, and he caressed her shoulder until he could tell by the even soft breaths against his neck that she had fallen asleep.

He lay in the dark, holding her, knowing their children were safely sleeping down the hall, and he was suddenly flooded with a sense of well-being and gratitude that brought tears to his eyes. He thought back to the song she had chosen for them on their wedding day.

_And I am lost for words  
You're more than I deserve  
And when I cannot stand  
You are where I land_

When he tightened his embrace, she sighed into his neck, nestling her body possessively against his, and he closed his eyes and slept.

**END**


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